As Long as There's a Moon
by Corvida-Margareth
Summary: Here lieth my attempt to meld the book and the Disney movie into the most harmonious blend, which maintains the optimism of Disney and adds in some of the more authentic historical and gothic overtones intended by Victor Hugo. (I promise there's not going to be a huge description of architecture stuck in.) For fans of Esmeraldalazingara on tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: A long while back, I was asked to write a fanfic of _the_ _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ from the perspective of Esmeralda and Phoebus, which promotes the relationship between the two. The fact that I am the author of several books of my own consumed my attention for the intervening time, and though I had begun a few times while focusing on my original content, and it has now come time, upon the sixth of January, the Feast of Fools itself, that I am compelled to share what I created.

I have maintained some faithfulness both to the original script of the movie, including the considerably controversial term "gypsy" which is embraced by some tribes of Roma and Sinti and hated by others. I think for the purposes of keeping the world of the story authentic, the word should maintain its place both because it is a word based on the misconstrued origins of the gypsies, and because there are many people who wear it as a badge of honor, and I hope to honor them, as well.

Please enjoy what I have to offer you, as it was crafted with those hungry for it in mind, and I wish most of all to satisfy the hungry.

Chapter 1:

Amid dynastic upheaval and the constant struggle to survive, a message arrived in the tent of Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, currently in command of His Majesty King Louis XI of France's corps of archers.

Though by degrees Phoebus had become accustomed to the life on campaign, receiving a letter from Paris lifted his spirits. He hadn't been back to the city in years, and he missed his family a great deal. Alas, this missive was not from his family. Instead, it bore the official seal of the highest minister of Justice in Paris: one Dom Claude Frollo.

He peered at the seal for a long while before he broke it. It was made in black ink, which served to conjure up memories of that dour man, the brother of his childhood friend Jehan. Though at times he had been friendly, the esteemed Dom Claude had been a man of the shadows, where he would spend long hours in contemplation.

The centerpiece of the seal was a cross, but from each of the outstretched 'arms' of the cross hung a scale. That was… different… but it did put across Frollo's point quite vividly.

Phoebus broke open the letter to examine its contents. Within he found a summons, which asked for him to report to Paris and assist Minister Frollo in an endeavor of grave import.

He smoothed the vellum out on the table and set a candle on one corner, then his inkwell on another. What could Frollo need of him? The message did not avail him of solid answers, but he knew Frollo well enough to know that he never took anything lightly. He would not ask for Phoebus's help unless it was as he said, and there was a matter of grave import which needed addressing.

Especially due to Phoebus's own integral role in the war effort, it must be a serious calamity that would befall the city without Phoebus's personal intervention. He'd never fancied himself much of a hero, but he was a good enough servant to his purpose.

The very fact that he'd been summoned away from the war gave him pause, however. How were his superiors meant to respond to his sudden disappearance from the ranks? They may very well object, as Claude Frollo may be a preeminently important name within the limits of Paris, but they were not in Paris.

He sighed, and glanced around his tent. He wouldn't have much of his own to take back with him to Paris, but perhaps it was good to travel light.

Missive in hand, he strode out of his tent and presented himself before his superiors. Not one of their faces betrayed their opinion of his being called off the field, and so despite the fact he could not even be certain he would go, while he waited for them to betray some inkling of an opinion, he reflected what it may be like if he were to return to the city.

He would most likely see old friends, even the young maiden, his cousin Fleur de Lys de Gondelaurier who had been promised to him since they were children. Actually… it occurred to him that he hadn't actually seen her since long before he actually left for the wars… what was she like?

"It seems that you are required in the city of Paris," said one General, and passed the letter along to another.

"We can replace you with another captain, though I do not think he can replicate your skill, or your bravery, Chateaupers," another of the generals said, and passed it along the line, but he was apparently the last who cared to look.

Thus to Phoebus's surprise, that very day he was packing up his belongings and retreating from the front lines with a somewhat bewildered air about him. He dug out an old map of Paris and started to pore over it, looking for the town house his parents had bought for him and attempting to guess how he was going to get there from the gate they let him into the city through… though of course, he was uncertain exactly where that would be.

The journey itself did not last as long as he had expected, but that was more than likely due to the fact that he had marched on the way to the front lines, but on the way from them, he rode astride his white charger, Achilles.

The thought of the faithful horse brought a smile to his face and he patted the creature's neck. He'd named him after his older brother, Achille, who had taken it in characteristic de Chateaupers style, with a dashing grin and a laugh at his own expense. For all the mockery he suffered at his waggish brother's hands, Phoebus found himself missing both Achille and their similarly humorous sister.

The rolling French countryside was a soothing sight, and it gave him time to reflect on why he had chosen this life: it was the one way he could see to protect the peacefulness others enjoyed. Even if it meant staring into the abyss on a frequent basis, it was the price he had agreed to pay.

The fresh air and high spirits quickly gave way to the return of the overbearing weight of duty the instant he saw the outer limits of Paris. He could see the walls, and the tops of Notre Dame de Paris's towers, as well as the Palace of Justice, among the tallest buildings in the city.

Once he was within, the city, however, both buildings were obscured from view by the buildings crammed in along every street he travelled up and down.

Slightly bewildered, Phoebus referred to the map he'd brought with him, but none of the roads corresponded with the ones he saw written out on the vellum in his hands.

Still worse, whenever one of the streets did yield a clue, he found that it had been abridged by another which had no counterpart to the map he held.

At last, after what felt like hours of exploring the city to no avail, he bunched the map up and tossed it into the gutter. "You leave town for a couple of decades and they change everything!" he noted to Achilles in his exasperation.

To his credit, the horse appeared to gather his master's meaning, or at least recognized the tone of his voice.

In the midst of his frustration, Phoebus caught sight of two soldiers on patrol, and his eyes lit up. "Excuse me!" he said, leaning forward and holding up one finger as he tried to get their attention. "I'm looking for the Palace of Justice, could you—?" the soldiers had not recognized he was speaking, in the least, instead they had continued on their way without once turning their heads, no matter how quickly Phoebus had spoken. "Hmm…" he frowned, standing up straight again. "I guess not…"

Once he became this city's Captain of the Guard, he would make it a priority to train the soldiers for better public relations! No wonder Claude Frollo had thought it was time for a change in command! Whoever he was replacing had done a disappointing job with the ranks, to say the least.

Then again he could only make reforms if he could actually find the Palace of Justice, and he wasn't making the least bit of headway on that endeavor. At this rate, he'd probably be presumed dead before that ever happened.

He heard music just a bit further down the street, and decided that was his best hope for some stress relief. He led Achilles to the street corner, where street performers were playing, accompanied by a dancing goat.

What a charming little creature!

He tossed a few coins into a hat beside the goat. Someone at least deserved payment for training the goat to dance! He heard the jingling of a tambourine and looked up to find the flashing green eyes of a dancer looking directly into his eyes.

Those eyes were captivating… as was her smile. She smirked at him with a cocky lowering of her lashes and a sway of her hips accompanied by a tap on her tambourine.

She hadn't spoken a word, but a thousand phrases might as well have been whispered in his ear, all of which made his armor feel just a little bit tighter. He dropped another coin into that hat of hers as surely as if he'd been hypnotized, but he didn't really care.

His heart pounded as a few more people arrived, and the dancer shifted from meeting his gaze to twirling about for all to see. It was disappointing in a way, except that now he got to really watch her move.

No staid noblewoman would ever "lower" herself to that behavior, but it was such a waste. The girl's dance was enchanting. Her quick-moving feet carrying her along for an array of skillful movements that made Phoebus stare.

When she stopped, it was to gracefully pick up the hat for collecting coins and held it out before every member of her audience. Each time she would give the gobsmacked Parisian a smile, her lashes half-obscuring her eyes as she did.

Phoebus's grip tightened on Achilles's reins, and struggled to keep signs of how uncomfortable his armor was getting from those around him. He swallowed as the woman approached him and gave him that look directly.

It was no use saying he'd already paid. He couldn't have mustered the words, anyway, so he dipped into his armor and gave her two more coins.

She drew back, and was just preparing for another dance when an urchin child whistled at them and the dancer gasped.

The Parisians all followed the street performers' gazes and saw that the soldiers who had ignored Phoebus minutes before were returning. What was the trouble with that?

He found out a moment later when the soldiers walked right past him and one of them yanked the hat out of the dancer's hands. Her coins went spilling everywhere as they demanded to know where her money had come from.

"For your information, I earned it!" the dancer spat at them while Phoebus attempted to decide why this encounter had even happened.

"Gypsies don't earn money!" one of the guards scoffed, while the other went to seize her.

"They steal it!" he said in a voice that marked him as something of a buffoon.

"You'd know a lot about stealing!" the dancer snarled, and jerked herself free.

Phoebus looked at Achilles. His brain had begun to work again, but now he was stuck fumbling through uncertainties. Was this person an actual thief? Had these fellows caught her committing theft previously? He could not be absolutely certain whether it was wise to intervene, and he did not wish to spend his first day back in Paris mucking about and making himself look like an imbecile.

"Troublemaker, eh?" one of the guards asked the dancer, and received a kick to the chin.

Just as the second man was threatening the dancer with time in the stocks, the goat which had been dancing so sweetly attacked both guards, giving the dancer time to flee with her friends.

At last, Phoebus found an idea in his big empty head, and dragged Achilles so that he blocked the street just as the soldiers attempted to pursue the dancer. Once one of them had fallen flat against the ground in just the right spot, another idea occurred to Phoebus.

"Achilles," he said, giving the horse a serious look directly in the eyes, "sit."

The horse had always relished the knowledge that he'd gotten a command correct, so he immediately sat atop the fallen soldier, who immediately began to beg that he get off.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Phoebus leaned against Achilles and smirked down at the trapped man, "Naughty horse! Naughty!" he playfully scolded Achilles, who gave him a look as if he were mildly amused. "He's just impossible," Phoebus concluded, leaning on Achilles's shoulder and smirking down at the trapped man. "Really, I can't take him anywhere!"

"I'll teach you a lesson, peasant!" the second soldier, who had unfortunately not been trapped, was snarling at Phoebus and brandishing what at first he'd expected to be a sword, but which was in fact a mere dagger.

Well, he couldn't just let violent idiots make yet another scene, especially not when they might hurt his horse!

He swept his cape out of the way and let his armor glint golden in the sunlight, while drawing his sword and angling it toward the man who'd dared to threaten him. "You were saying… lieutenant?" he smirked at the man and watched him fumble over himself to salute, which in his clumsiness resulted in a _clang_ from where his helmet whacked his brow. "At your service, sir!" the soldier finally managed.

Phoebus knelt beside the still-trapped soldier and just to teach him a lesson, planted his sword right in front of his face. These soldiers were going to learn respect, it was just a matter of how much fun Phoebus got to have along the way!

"Now, I know you've got a lot on your mind, right now, but… the Palace of Justice…"

In no time, the two soldiers who had originally completely ignored him were doing all they could to impress him with their loyalty as they made way for him to walk through busy streets.

Since neither of them were actually looking at him, he paused and gathered up the money the street performers had earned and subsequently dropped.

As he followed the men, he caught sight of a beggar smoking in the alley he was about to pass through. Well… even if there was no way to find the people who had originally earned it, he could at least make sure that someone in need got it.

It was starting to become much easier to imagine the good Phoebus could do in this city. He dared to think that Frollo had made an excellent choice in who to summon. Together, with Frollo's expertise in the actual character of Paris, and Phoebus's people skills. As kind as Frollo was, he'd never really been so great with people…

When he got his first sight of the Palace of Justice in years, he realized he hadn't imagined how imposing it looked in his youthful naïveté. It really looked like something out of a romance, where the knight had to venture into the dark castle of a wicked knight and fight for his life, or at least a fair maiden.

He really hoped he got over that while working there.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

Coins clinked into the hat Esmeralda had set in front of herself in her beggar disguise, and she looked up in spite of Djali's head in the way. This was the captain who had defended her from the guards…

Did he know it was her? No, he couldn't know that… It was best to get out of sight as soon as possible, so Esmeralda dropped out of the disguise, and let Djali trot along behind her while she wrapped the coins in the cape she'd worn and made it into a bundle to carry under her arm.

She spared a coin for other beggars she passed along the way, but her stomach was stirring at the thought of the food she could afford with all this money. Soon she reached the bakery, and the baker peered at her in surprise, and even a little suspicion. She couldn't fault him for that, so she just held up two of her coins. She had to remember to keep as much as she could for as long as possible.

"What can I get for this much?" she asked him.

One of the baker's brows rose and he quickly snatched the coins out of her hand before she had the chance to rip him off. Fair enough… right?

For her money she got a semi-burnt loaf of meslin, the common bread mixed of wheat and rye, and even a few acorns.

"Now go about your business before my other customers notice you're here," he urged.

Djali could sense the tension between her mistress and the baker, so she lowered her horns at the baker in a warning.

"No, Djali, we're not going to get in another fight, today," Esmeralda snapped her fingers and led the goat out of the bakery with her prize.

Even discount bread was better than no bread, and it meant she hadn't needed to waste any more of her money than absolutely necessary.

On her way back to the Court of Miracles, she caught sight of the scaffolding and platforms which were being set up in the square. Some vendors had already set up places and were serving festival food to early arrivals.

She was almost out of time to practice! She moved a little more quickly through the city to the Court of Miracles, and took the side path reserved for those who knew their way, rather than through the river of sewage and the corpse-laden hall.

There was Clopin Troillefou, the self-proclaimed King of the Gypsies, and her semi-adoptive-pseudo-father. The rules of that self-proclaimed title were never quite as well-defined.

"There you are!" he cried. "Where have you been? I sent three people out there with you, and they returned without you!" he pointed to where the musicians and the scout she'd been dancing with earlier that day were trapped in Clopin's makeshift stocks, complete with some of his worn-out jester hats.

"That's not fair to them," Esmeralda sighed, and divided up the rest of the money between the four of them. "I stayed behind so I could distract the soldiers without getting us all thrown into the Palace of Justice."

Clopin frowned and rolled his eyes. "And to think that was fun for a little while," he snorted.

"Don't worry, we'll have plenty more fun when we've got the show going, and _you_ , o 'King of the Gypsies' will have more fun than anyone else, now won't you?"

Clopin rolled his eyes at the affected title and smirked. "Are you sure you want to wear that dress, _Cherie_? I've told you over and over—"

"It's the Feast of Fools," Esmeralda reiterated. "That means that luck is flipped around, so red is a _good_ luck color… besides, when else will I get to wear that dress?"

"After you're married," Clopin muttered, though with how territorial he was over his foster-daughter that was hardly likely to happen any time soon, and he knew it.

"Well, until then, I'll be taking advantage of the topsy turvy day to wear the pretty dress. Now! My routine: I want to go over it one more time."

Clopin rolled his eyes. "You've already got it down to _perfection_ , what more do you need?"

"I want to make sure the timing is _absolutely_ down," she said, and pointed accusingly at him. "You haven't let me practice the timing as much as I've wanted!"

Clopin gasped and pressed a hand to his chest. "I am a busy man!" he protested. "Come! I will practice one last time with you, but then we shall all have to get to the actual festival!"

They assembled in their spots, with Clopin standing on the trap door he occasionally utilized for hanging spies. Esmeralda was below it, with two other performers, each poised for their roles in switching Clopin and Esmeralda's places on the stage.

As they would when they were at the Festival, one of them held Esmeralda on his shoulders, waiting as Clopin recited her introduction, pausing on the final note of her name as she reached up and slowly opened the trap door just before he dropped a smoke bomb and dropped down in a spray of pink powder.

The man who was supporting Esmeralda threw her upward through the trap door and closed it behind her, and as the smoke cleared, she struck her pose.

There was no music to accompany her, but nonetheless she began to dance through the routine she had painstakingly prepared, with all the best moves she'd ever been taught rolled in.

She envisioned what would happen when she acknowledged Frollo sitting in one end of the stage. It was all but obligatory to acknowledge him, since even on a day like this they had to acknowledge that he was the one person who refused to put aside his authority to play along.

If only she could stand up to him, when everyone was watching, and then perhaps someone would realize he was not all-powerful…

Well… it was the Feast of Fools, after all.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

The Palace of Justice was no less imposing on the inside as it had been on the outside. The entry hall was set up with an array of weapons stacked up to the rafters in complex crossed patterns. Phoebus's escorts explained to him that on a moment's notice, they could line up in the Palace of Justice and each receive a set of fresh weapons.

"But only if there were real trouble," the less oafish one of them attempted to assure Phoebus, who decided he would just appreciate how practical it was.

That was a good word for everything else they passed the further they got into the Palace. There were a few different courtrooms along the hall before they reached the stairs, and some even had cases in progress. He could hear the low murmuring of judges and wondered what Frollo had done to become the head judge of them all. Perhaps he was simply that brilliant.

As he was led through the imposing fortress, Phoebus marveled at how well it reflected Claude Frollo's cold, pragmatic demeanor. No tapestry had been chosen to soften stark ash-tinted stonewalls, but on occasion they would pass a crucifix nailed to the wall.

Even the windows accomplished nothing beyond sharpening the pangs of confinement in such an oppressively dark fortress. He had expected to find Claude in his study, but instead he was led into the palace's dungeon.

To his surprise, he was left to follow the trail of amber light from candles down the dungeon hall until he found Frollo, himself, in his official judicial robes, peering into a cell where someone was being flogged.

Nothing unusual there, Phoebus told himself, he was a judge, after all. As he approached, Frollo was instructing the torturer in how best to flog the prisoner, namely that blows ought not be continuous. Rather, the torturer ought to pause so that his victim did not have the chance to acclimate to the sting.

Phoebus schooled his features so they would remain stoic. He didn't know what this man had done, after all, so it would not do to freely display his discomfort.

It was during this struggle that Frollo finally noticed him. "Ah, so this is the gallant Captain Phoebus, home from the wars!" His smile was broad but somehow false.

Phoebus fell back on his military training. "Reporting for duty, as ordered, Sir," he said.

"Your service record precedes you, Phoebus," Frollo said, circling him as he spoke. "I hadn't expected so much from you when you first left for training."

Phoebus ground his teeth. He would _not_ allow it to show how unnerved he was by this behavior, and how affronted he'd been by that offhand comment.

"I expect nothing but the _best_ from a war hero of _your_ caliber," Frollo said.

"And you shall have it, Sir, I guarantee it," Phoebus replied stiffly.

"Yes… you know, my last Captain of the Guard was ehm, a bit of a disappointment to me."

Another whip lash made Phoebus jump, and he tried not to notice the smile on Frollo's face at hearing the ex-captain scream.

"Well, no matter," the judge sneered in his usual genial tone. "I'm sure you'll—" he paused to give Phoebus what he ostensibly meant to be a jocular smile, "— _whip_ my men into shape!"

That, at last, was all Phoebus could take. He was officially disturbed.

"Tr-uh… tr—uh… Tremendous honor, Sir," he said as Frollo led him away.

Phoebus caught sight of his predecessor's bloody back as he passed, and didn't dare wish the man well.

When the man turned to give him a baleful gaze over his shoulder, he hurried along to avoid the premonitions of what could easily happen to him.

Frollo led him back outside, onto a balcony, to Phoebus's relief. He was talking, still, something about Paris being in her darkest hour. He peered out over the city, and recalled his introduction to the citizens. If anything, the lack of discipline among the soldiers was causing enough trouble to constitute a threat to the people, so that was initially what he expected Frollo to discuss.

However, he said, "It will take a firm hand to save the weak-minded from being so _easily_ misled."

Now what in God's name did that mean? " _Misled_ , Sir?" he asked, utterly bewildered but attempting not to sound it.

"Look, Captain, _gypsies_ ," Frollo said, indicating the street below where he could see a street performance going on much like the one he'd passed by earlier. It may even be the same girl with her goat… would he get to see her again up close? "The gypsies live outside the normal order, their heathen ways enflame the people's lowest instincts, and they _must be stopped_!" The mild tones Frollo had spoken with only moments before were all gone now, as he gave Phoebus an intense look and clenched his hand into a fist.

Phoebus was taken aback. "I was summoned from _the wars_ to capture fortune tellers and palm readers?" he asked, incredulously.

"Ah, the _real_ war, Captain, is what you see before you," Frollo said, one claw-like hand on Phoebus's elbow as he gestured below back at the dancing girl.

Was he implying that her dancing for payment was somehow a crime? It hadn't been last time Phoebus had been in the city, but that had been some time ago… was Frollo responsible for that scene he'd witnessed in the streets? This was not a sign of a _lack_ of discipline, but a _glut_ of discipline!

"For twenty years, I have been— _taking care_ —of the gypsies," Frollo went on, and crushed an ant on the parapet to punctuate each of his words as he added, " _One by one_. And yet, for all my success," he tore a loose stone block from the parapet to reveal a nest of perhaps a thousand ants, "they have thrived," Frollo concluded. "I believe they have a safe haven within the walls of this very city—a _nest_ — if you will. They call it the _Court of Miracles_ ," he scoffed with a derisive roll of his eyes.

"And what are we going to do about it, Sir?" Phoebus asked, maintaining his composure in spite of his gritted teeth.

With a wicked gleam in his eyes, Frollo slammed the stone slab into place once more, except that this time, it was upside-down, so all the ants beneath it were crushed.

"You make your point quite vividly, sir," Phoebus tried to hold himself together as he realized that Frollo meant to exterminate every last Egyptian in Paris.

"You know, I _like_ you, Captain," Frollo said, setting a hand on Phoebus's shoulder in just such a way that unnerved Phoebus, and made him want to shake that hand off before he failed some test and was dragged away into a dungeon for torment.

It really didn't sit well with him, either, that Frollo claimed to like him. What sort of person did you have to be before that happened? He'd expected Claude the Generous when he arrived, and yet, this withered old fellow hardly resembled him in the least.

"Shall we?" With such a genial smile, ordinarily Phoebus would have thought Frollo would invite him for wine and the chance to relax after the journey he'd taken… but that was the same expression he'd worn while watching a flogging… which reminded him…

The captain Phoebus was replacing had somehow displeased Frollo… possibly by not being as ruthless as Frollo had wanted him to be… The realization that he had passed by an innocent man as he was tortured, possibly for the latest in a series of days, gave Phoebus chills that he was careful to hide.

He was distracted from his uneasy toils over what a 'pleasant' afternoon with Claude Frollo might entail by fanfare and a drum roll from the square just outside Notre Dame.

"Oh," Frollo noted sourly, "duty calls… have you ever attended a peasant festival?"

"Not recently… Sir…" Phoebus replied, remembering times from his childhood. It had been extraordinary, back then…

"Then it shall be quite an education for you… come along."

Phoebus knew he probably shouldn't be smiling since he'd just been told Frollo would educate him on something, but he couldn't help the optimism that flooded into his heart.

He might be able to see that fiery dancer he'd met before, and even if he didn't, it would be leagues better than whatever Frollo had been planning.

Frollo led Phoebus away from the lodge, and he allowed himself to relax. At least this festival meant he would have a little fun, and he wouldn't be alone with Frollo…

As he was led back through the dungeon, he realized it was for Frollo to check on his prisoner, not because that was the swiftest way through the Palace.

He found as well, that as they examined the man that his life had been extinguished. At least he was free… but it was now incumbent upon Phoebus not to share in his fate.

It was beginning to crystallize in Phoebus's mind that the men under Frollo's command were so intimidated by Frollo's disciplinary tactics that they fell right in line. All the corruption may easily have filtered down through the ranks simply because they wished to follow their moral authority… and didn't want to get flogged to death.

Frollo couldn't live forever, and looking at him, Phoebus estimated that the gap between that day and his death was quickly closing. As he mounted Achilles to follow Frollo's carriage to the Festival, Phoebus decided his strategy would be to outlast this man, and undo his corruption from the inside.

He just hoped he didn't die before he could realize that vision.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

After she had set up her tent among the many in the square, Esmeralda took some time to dance one more time, enticing peasants with the idea of her encore at the festival. She was careful not to prolong the performance too long before going to find Clopin.

True to form, he was prancing around in the most flamboyant and at times even obnoxious manner. He even wasted some prep time by harassing a mediocre playwright whose morality play was awaiting the arrival of some Cardinal or another, and his audience was losing interest at a shocking rate.

Esmeralda gave Clopin a look meant to bring him back to the festival, where he was actually the Master of Ceremonies, and crucial to the flow of events. Not to mention he would be unbearable for the rest of the year if he missed the chance to lead the Festival of Fools.

At last, the two of them left the mediocre world of the play to the fantastic brilliance of the Festival of Fools.

"Go and get that ghastly costume on," Clopin ordered, and pranced away to make an entrance worthy of his ego.

Meanwhile, Esmeralda scurried into her tent, and began preparing. She slipped out of her everyday clothes and was about to change into her performance dress when she heard someone shouting, and losing his balance.

A man fell backwards into her tent, and grabbed ahold of the curtain she'd so painstakingly set up to partition her changing space from the door to the tent.

"Hey!" she scolded, pulling her robe tightly over herself… until she realized that this was no feigned accident meant to catch a glimpse of a woman in a compromising state of dress.

Instead, there was some fumbling young man scrambling to get out from under her fallen curtain. So this was a clumsy mistake… she could forgive that.

"You're not hurt, are you?" she asked as the man, really it was possible it was a boy from the size. "Here, let me see," she said gently, and pulled back his cloak so she could look at his face. "There," she said, looking him over and finding that while he was wearing a very simple tunic and hose under his cloak, he had spared no efforts with his mask.

Was that plaster? cloth? a little of both? It looked so realistic!

Djali was visibly disturbed by the mask, but Esmeralda was just glad there hadn't been a worse mishap.

"See? No harm done," she said, helping the fellow to his feet. "Just try to be a little more careful," she said with a gentle laugh.

"I-I will…" he stuttered as she guided him out of the tent.

"And by the way, great mask!" she said as she closed the tent flap between them and went back to hurrying into her costume.

She'd lost a bit of time due to the interruption, so she didn't have time to fix the tent before she slipped out with her own cloak disguising her brilliantly-colored costume.

She could already hear Clopin singing his grandstanding song, which was her cue to stand beneath the show stage and await her signal to appear.

She was risking her reputation with this performance, but that was part of what made the opportunity so enticing. Other dancers might have performed this dance had they the courage, but any misstep could result in a lifetime of mockery, not only in Paris, but all of France.

As aware of that as she was, Esmeralda was impatient for the chance to stand before everyone and show them what she was capable of. It was equally possible that she could successfully prove herself as the _best_ dancer, or as Clopin boasted, the "finest girl in France." Such a coveted reputation could instead result in giving Esmeralda a title akin to street royalty, and the chance to achieve either title was moments away.

The moment he cried for her to dance, she was up on stage, as the transition in the smoke blurred past her. Then there she was, bowing to the astounded crowd. They _should_ be impressed! The timing here had taken weeks to practice in the Court of Miracles. She strutted around the stage, and then came the real dancing. Only then did she see, right by the box for Judge Frollo, the Captain who had saved her from those guards who'd harassed her that day.

Of course, he'd associate with Frollo! Even the good ones were secretly just collaborators.

She just wished that she had an opportunity to tell them both off at once… Well, it _was_ the Feast of Fools, so she decided to make one of a certain judge.

As repulsive as he was, Judge Frollo was still a public official, and the gypsies could only stand to better their relationship with him. So, she pranced across a wing of the stage to seat herself on the arm of Frollo's chair. She sent a smirk Phoebus' way, before focusing on what appeared to be a terrified, pasty old man falling apart at the seams.

While perched on the arm of Frollo's chair, careful to stay as far out of his lap as she could, she looped her scarf around his neck and pulled his wrinkled, hook-nosed face closer to her. It was all too satisfying to first pretend she was about to kiss him, and then send his hat crashing down over his face, even if she did leave her scarf with him.

She managed to make her smugness look like a dancer's confidence, or at least she hoped she did, as she finished the dance with a twirl around a stolen soldier's spear and a bow to her audience. The last thing she would have to do for the day was help crown the king of fools, and then she could go home and count the earnings. The prestige off this performance was sure to merit her some much-desired attention in the future, and she was going to capitalize on that for all she was worth.

She caught sight of her golden-armored "friend" who winked at her when he noticed he'd caught her eye. It seemed like a good-natured wink, so she returned it.

Still, she'd noticed the fellow who'd fallen into her tent during her dance, and shy as he was, she was not about to let him miss out on the chance to win the competition he'd obviously worked so hard preparing for.

Though Clopin was doing his best to sell the hideous face competition, Esmeralda was the one who actually proceeded to unmask the competitors. It was fun, having an excuse to push people around, especially into a puddle of mud, but the game came to a quick halt when the young man she'd pulled onstage herself proved not to be wearing a mask, at all.

How could she have been so stupid? Why had she looked right into this man's face several times in a row, and not once realized he wasn't wearing a mask? No mask could be so lopsided, with such unequally-proportioned features, without _looking_ like a mask.

"I'm so sorry…" she whispered to him as he covered his face in enormous hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, don't panic!" Clopin cried to the confused and disturbed crowd. "We asked for the ugliest face in Paris, and here he is! Quasimodo the Hunchback of Notre Dame!"

Clopin's announcement brought smiles once again to the Parisians' faces. Even Esmeralda couldn't help but sigh with relief as they embraced Quasimodo and led him away to celebrate his being crowned the King of Fools.

In the confusion, she disappeared back into her tent so that she could change into her ordinary clothes. Within minutes, she could hear the commotion take a dark turn. There was no precedent for the cruel notes in the laughter she could hear.

When she peered out of her tent she saw that rather than celebrate the bell-ringer, the Parisians had begun to torment him on the pillory! This was her fault… she was sure of it… and so, she would be the one to fix it.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

When the dancing had ended, Phoebus began to wish that he could simply dismount and wait for the dancer to be free from her part in the festivities so he could go… _speak_ with her.

It didn't particularly matter that he was betrothed to Fleur de Lys, at a time like this, especially since he had yet to even see her after his return to Paris. Besides, it was the dancer constantly sparking his interest with her flashing eyes and her enticing dances…

In the midst of his contemplation, Phoebus was slow to notice the abrupt end to the deliberations on who would be crowned the King of Fools.

That was until fanfare broke through the dense crust around his mind, and he looked up to see that not only had someone been crowned, but this fellow had the face of a wax figure that had been out in the sun too long. He stared in dismay as the King was led in a procession past his position, unable to look away from the sheer strangeness of his appearance.

Before he'd gotten the chance to blink, it seemed the celebration had turned as ugly on the face of the King of Fools… though really, that was no justification for the way they were acting. Rotten fruits were being thrown at the poor fellow as he was spun around on a wheel ordinarily used for breaking bones.

"Sir," he turned to Frollo, hoping for a shred of the same compassion he'd witnessed in his youth, 'I request permission to stop this cruelty!"

"In a moment, Captain," Frollo drawled, and Phoebus realized that he was _smiling_ as if he were enjoying what was happening. "A _lesson_ needs to be learned here."

Before Phoebus could protest, he heard the racket behind him descend into a hush, and turned around in confusion.

The crowd had not ceased its torment of the bell ringer out of compassion, but because the dancer Phoebus had been so taken with was approaching the hunchback and had stolen the breath of all witnesses.

She knelt beside him and unbound the hip scarf from around her waist and used it to wipe away the residue of the fruit which had been thrown at the hunchback.

As they were too far apart, Phoebus could only guess what she was saying. An apology, perhaps, for the ill-treatment the man had received, and some comforting words, as well.

"You! Gypsy girl!" Frollo barked. "Get down at once!"

"Yes, your honor," she returned, "just as soon as I free this poor creature!"

Phoebus smiled at her courage and kindness, though he remained puzzled as to why Frollo was so averse to her acting in the role of Good Samaritan.

"I _forbid it_!"

Phoebus was still stunned, but the dancer scowled at Frollo, completely un-intimidated.

She drew a dagger from a sheath strapped to her leg—the sight of which made Phoebus's armor become slightly uncomfortable—and sliced through the ropes which bound the hunchback.

"How _dare_ you defy me?" Frollo growled.

"You mistreat this poor boy the _same_ way you mistreat my people!" she shouted across the square, and Phoebus noticed discomfort on many of the faces around her. 'You speak of justice, yet you are cruel to those most in need of your help!"

"Silence!" Frollo roared.

" _Justice_!" she shouted back, somehow louder than he'd been, and stabbed the air with her dagger.

Now the disturbance rippled more loudly through the crowd, and Phoebus marveled at how well she had stirred the people.

"Mark my words, Gypsy," Frollo snarled in spite of public sentiment being in the dancer's favor. "You will _pay_ for this _insolence_!"

She adopted a mocking smirk, and said, "Then it appears we've crowned the wrong fool!"She gestured gracefully to Quasimodo, and then yanked his crown off his head. "The only fool I see is _you_!" She threw the crown at Frollo, and though it did not reach him, her words certainly had.

"Captain Phoebus! Arrest her!"

He heard those words, but didn't register what he was meant to do for an instant. He concluded after a moment's deliberation that if she were taken in, he would have the chance to protect her from Frollo's wrath, but if he didn't, he'd be the one who got it. At least if he helped arrest her, he could also help acquit her.

He snapped his fingers and gestured for the men newly under his command to surround her. It really was a pity. He would have preferred to see her again under better circumstances, but such was the fate they'd been dealt.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

There was that "kind" and "virtuous" Captain who'd swept to her rescue just that day, ordering that she ought to be arrested for offering mercy to an innocent torture victim. If she ever got the chance, she would make him pay for his betrayal.

There was no time to fume, however. Her distraction method was a little more rushed than she would have preferred, but luckily she knew the show grounds better than any soldier.

"Let me see," she said, counting off each of the soldiers who approached her, "one, two, three, four, five… six seven eight nine, so there's ten of you and one of me…" she paused to take pride in knowing all the French words for the first ten numbers before she pulled her handkerchief with the rolled up ball of flash powder in its corner. "What's a poor girl to do?" she asked as she affected tears. She then pretended to blow her nose, and instead blew on the powder, sending it everywhere.

While horses reared and people shouted their surprise, Esmeralda scurried away from Quasimodo and allowed them to see her again when she was posed beside the execution scaffold, where Djali followed her.

"Oh boys!" she taunted, "Over here!"

Now they were following her again, and all she had to do was playfully prance through the fair grounds. She played off their every attack, and made a fool of them every chance she got. Still, she wondered where her family was. Clopin, at least, ought to be there to assist her…

Well, no matter, she had to focus on her escape!

Two men on stilts lifted her up and let her stand upon a pavilion, where she and Djali stood out of reach. With a dramatic drum roll in her ears, she took hold of a large cloth tarp, and did a quick spin. As she did, she hunched down and grabbed Djali around the middle. With one hand firmly around the back of the cloth canopy, she slid down the back and wrapped herself and Djali in the cloak she often disguised herself in. With that, she slipped unnoticed into the shadows.

All the shouting and frantic scrambling ended the moment she was out of sight. There was dread in the silence, as festival goers of every stripe awaited the punishment Claude Frollo would mete out upon them.

From her new perch in the shadows of a tent, Esmeralda watched what happened next as if it were a pantomimed morality play, as the voices were beyond her ken.

The imperious judge stood over the Bell Ringer, whose back was cruelly exposed to the pelting icy lash of a thousand raindrop whips. The shattered young fellow crumbled further to the ground as the Captain in his sunshine armor seemed out of place amidst all the gray.

Esmeralda vowed that she would avenge herself on the Captain soon enough, but as it stood, she waited for the Bell Ringer to enter the Cathedral, out of the rain.

She could hear Frollo ordering his men to seek her out, and so as the rain began to fall in earnest, she hid herself away in the church, hoping that would at least offer her an escape.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

Her first sight of the Cathedral from the inside took Esmeralda's breath away.

Whenever she'd stood outside it, she had tried to imagine what it would look like, and she was struck by the similarities she saw to the Court of Miracles. Both this Cathedral and the Court were festooned with brilliant colors, and buzzing with life… even if the stained glass windows were in place of the multicolored tents and the cloth which had been hung up to disguise the fact that they were in the catacombs.

Really, for all the similarities she could see, she could also see the stark contrast: namely that Notre Dame was the sanctified version of the safe place her family lived in. It was said that someone could claim sanctuary here… in the Court you had to look a certain way or you were hanged on sight…

Meanwhile, this was the true Court reigned over by God, the king of everything… and it was where real miracles might even be performed… The further she moved into the Cathedral, with her eyes wide open, she began to feel God's presence. Of course, the church had been constructed this way… God would want to have a beautiful house…

If there were a place she could find God, would it not be in a place like this? On that point, why was she allowed in? Possibly because nobody had noticed her, yet…

Her thoughts are interrupted by a footstep behind her in the otherwise empty entrance to the Cathedral, and her eyes slid to their corners to see who it might be.

There stood the Captain, the one she'd _thought_ she could trust, but who had attempted to arrest her, anyway. One of his arms was outstretched towards her, and she snarled at his sickening ability to sneak up on her. It would not go unpunished!

In one smooth motion she turned and gripped the hilt of his sword, and while he was surprised, she gripped his cloak and yanked him off his feet.

" _You_ …" she snarled, angling his sword right at his throat.

"Easy, easy, I-I just shaved this morning…" he said as he crawled backward with his eyes fixed on the blade.

"Oh really?" she tapped the sword against the patch of hair clinging to his chin. "You missed a spot!"

"Just give me a chance to apologize," he said, leaning against a column with his hands up in surrender.

"For what?" she growled.

Before Esmeralda could even guess what he would do next, he had kicked her legs out from under her and reclaimed his sword. " _That_ , for example," he said with a cocky smirk spreading across his face.

From the tiled floor, Esmeralda still gave him a challenging snarl. "You _sneaky son of a_ —"

"Ah, ah, ah! Watch it: you're in a church," he said, his eyes darting from one side to the other as if someone were about to come out of nowhere and scold them… did God do that in churches?

She got to her feet and casually grabbed a candelabrum as she returned his smarmy tone. "Are you always this charming, or am I just lucky?" she asked, and then swung the candelabrum at him before he could see any sign of her continued aggression.

All the man did was laugh at her and block the candelabrum with his sword, dancing back from her as he said, "Candlelight! Music! Couldn't think of a better place for hand-to-hand combat!"

He was _so irritating_! Esmeralda kept striking at him, but all he did was dance out of her path and continue to mock her.

"You fight almost as well as a man!" he told her with a look that made him appear _genuinely_ impressed.

"Funny!" she slammed the bar of the candelabrum against the sword he raised half-heartedly to deflect her. "I was about to say the same thing about _you_!" she growled, and since he was only blocking with half his strength, or so she guessed, she pushed with all her might.

"That's hitting a little below the belt, don't you think?" he asked, not having been moved nearly as much off-balance as she'd wanted him to be.

"No," she smirked, angling her makeshift weapon between his legs, " _this_ is!"

Predictably, he was able to block her assault between his legs, but he had been unable to predict that she would _also_ assault his face with the foot of the candelabrum.

He shook himself, and she could see a line of blood trail down his lip where her strike had split it. Still, he smiled in spite of the injury, and his eyes lit up. "Touché!" he grinned, and it was then Djali chose to ram him in the gut. He bent double, and then looked up at her. "I didn't know you had a kid," he told her, unflappably playing the buffoon, even if it were only in the tone of his voice.

"Well, he doesn't take kindly to soldiers," Esmeralda sneered at him, bent over her makeshift weapon as she backed slowly away from him.

"Uh… I noticed!" he still managed to smile somehow. "Permit me, I'm Phoebus. It means… Sun God," he kept smirking, but she could still see that he was being playful and even making fun of himself.

Still, she shared a skeptical glance with Djali, who seemed even more skeptical than she was.

"And… you are…?" he asked the leading question with a friendly tone she didn't trust for a moment.

"Is this an interrogation?" she demanded, raising a brow at his still-drawn sword, waiting for him to strike while she was distracted.

Instead, he sheathed his sword. "It's called an introduction."

"You're not arresting me?" she asked, trying to square that idea with the way he'd nearly arrested her when they were still in the square. Hadn't he come in here to fetch her for Frollo?

"Not as long as you're in here," he gestured to the Cathedral surrounding them, "I can't."

She paused, wondering when the last time she'd heard a soldier say he _couldn't_ arrest someone had been. "You're not at all like the other soldiers," she admitted, setting aside the candelabrum.

"Thank you," he said cordially, still giving her his perpetual smile.

Well, that was another enigma for her: why would he be proud of being different?

She folded her arms defensively, but still took another step closer to him, even if she was still suspicious of him. "So… if you're not going to arrest me… what do you want?" she asked.

"I'd settle for your name," he said.

That was actually it? She didn't even have to get the dagger off her leg again? Slowly, an unstoppable smile took over her lips and stretched them wide. "Esmeralda," she replied.

"Beautiful… well, much better than _Phoebus_ , anyway," he chuckled, and took a step closer to her.

She stared into his eyes, and for the first time saw a man standing there, not a suit of armor. His eyes were full of such kindness, behind the cocky wit. His nose was slightly curved, and his hair… it was like a halo of sunshine… She was moving closer to him, and didn't bother to stop.

She knew this man would not betray her, again. Now they were… friends… or something approaching it…

"Phoebus…" she whispered to him, and could not hide the hint of reverence which crept into how she spoke the name.

She could see the light flicker in his eyes, waiting for the end of a sentence that would never form.

The doors to the church flew open with a bang, and Frollo's voice echoed through the chamber, saying, "Good work, Captain! Now, arrest her!"

Esmeralda's heart froze, and her mind reeled with shame.

"Claim sanctuary…" Phoebus whispered to her. "Say it!"

She swallowed her anger, and thought instead of how he'd given her good advice. "I claim sanctuary!" she snarled, and her balled her hands into fists.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Phoebus said, folding his hands behind his back. "There's nothing I can do."

Frollo stalked closer, pointing at the door. "Then _drag her outside, and_ —"

"Frollo! You will not touch her!" an older man's voice shouted from behind Esmeralda. That same old man's hand was quickly on her shoulder as he said, "Don't worry. Minister Frollo learned _years ago_ to _respect the sanctity of the church_!" He gave Frollo a glare that made Esmeralda wonder what the subtext behind that comment might be, even as her heart fluttered madly with the knowledge that she was so close to someone who would gladly drag her to the Palace of Justice to be tormented to death.

Frollo's features contorted in a look of such tooth-gnashing rage she thought he might begin to foam at the mouth and charge her. Instead, Frollo sneered down his lengthy nose at the Archdeacon, and motioned for his soldiers to depart from the church. "If you do _any more_ than the bare minimum, you will be aiding and abetting a fugitive," he said, and Esmeralda could hear the edge of smug pleasure in his saying it. "If you are found guilty, you will be _stripped of your authority_ , with the full measure of the law. But of course, you knew that, did you not?"

Esmeralda's eyes darted between Frollo and the Archdeacon, and her knees began to shake. What had she just agreed to? Was she _actually_ safe?

"I know that very well, Frollo, thank you for reminding me," the Archdeacon said. "Now, please allow me to return to my regular duties."

Frollo gritted his teeth, and gestured for his men to leave, after which he also turned to go.

The Archdeacon looped his arm through Phoebus's, and though it was clear the man would have preferred to stay, and his eyes did not leave Esmeralda's face, he did not fight the Archdeacon.

Still, his movements were much too halting for Djali's liking, and the little goat "guided" him along with a few horn strikes to his backside.

As happy as she was to be rid of Frollo, Esmeralda couldn't help but be a little disappointed that the Captain also had to go. They'd just been getting acquainted, after all!

There was little time to reflect on the disappointment, and wonder what may have happened had they gone uninterrupted, for someone seized her arm from behind and twisted it against her back.

That same man pressed himself close to her back, and she knew without a doubt to whom that lean, bony frame belonged, even before he spoke. Ordinary people were warm, up close, but he was colder than stone.

"You think you've outwitted me," he whispered, "but I am a patient man, and gypsies don't do well inside stone walls!" he growled into her ear, and she envisioned what he had done to her people in that stone "palace" of his.

While she attempted to jerk herself free, Frollo began to sniff at her hair.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, as she shivered with disgust.

"I was just imagining a _rope_ around that beautiful neck…" his hand went around her neck and sent a jolt of fresh revulsion through Esmeralda, who jabbed her elbow under his ribs so she could finally escape the filth of his invading presence.

"I know what you were imagining!" she snarled. She had always _known_ he was evil, but this was a new low. "Archdeacon! Help!" she called.

Some of the Parisians who had been praying in other parts of the church ventured to the front to see what was happening.

It was apparently possible for Frollo to turn even paler, since that was what happened when he realized there were witnesses. He collected himself quickly, however. "This is a clever witch," he told the others. "She twists words to cloud weak minds with unholy thoughts, but I am invulnerable to her trickery!"

"If you aren't having ugly thoughts, then how would you know a thing like that?" Esmeralda asked.

Though she'd hoped that the Parisians would back her up, they appeared too afraid to confront the judge for her.

"Well, no matter," Frollo had now collected himself and folded his hands. "You've chosen a prison, but it is a prison, nonetheless. Step one foot outside and you're mine!" he said, before slamming the door behind himself.

"None of us are trapped in here with you, are we?" an old woman in a velvet gown asked, and others ran to check all the other doors.

The lamentations of those who had realized that it was true, and every door was guarded rose up and filled the church with a din of panic.

That was until the Archdeacon reentered with his hands raised. "Gentle parishioners!" he called over the din, "You are all free to come and go as you please! Frollo and his men are only here to ensure our dancing friend here stays out of trouble! None of you will be accosted if you wish to leave now, but I shall be performing a special mass to help us all recover from today's trying events."

Now the Parisians were appeased, and so they filed back into the pews, though the Archdeacon spared a moment to give Esmeralda a sympathetic look, and say, "Don't act rashly, dear child. You created quite a stir at the festival… it would be unwise to arouse Frollo's anger further."

She pursed her lips, "You saw what happened out there, didn't you? You saw how the crowd was torturing that poor boy?" with her eyes widening she looked to the Archdeacon for support. "I thought if just one person would stand up to him, then, well—" he sighed, seeing that the Archdeacon was giving her a kind-eyed look, but he still wore a smile. He understood, but it wasn't enough… "What do they have against people who are _different_ , anyway?" she asked him.

"You cannot right all the wrongs in this world by yourself," he told her, placing a gentle hand on her back and guiding her further into the church.

"Nobody out there's going to help, that's for sure," she grumbled.

"Well," he said gently before he left to conduct the service, "perhaps there's someone in here who can."

Esmeralda stood frozen when he was gone, her muscles tense as she worried that with him gone, Frollo would sneak up on her once more. Instead, she proceeded further into the church, thinking that perhaps she would find someone to help her… but that was not what the Archdeacon had meant.

In a nearby chapel off the nave, Esmeralda found a statue of Mary holding the baby Jesus. She'd never seen one so close before. She tried to remember the details of the story as she gazed upon their serene faces.

Mary had been born a poor girl far away in the Holy Land, and one day God told her that he'd picked her to be the mother of Jesus. Esmeralda knew well enough what an unmarried woman with a baby would go through in France, let alone among her own people. The Holy Land would probably not be any different. She couldn't help but smile at the thought that God hadn't chosen a princess to bring his son into the world, but an ordinary peasant girl.

Even though now Mary and her son, God himself, were in Heaven, surely they had to remember what it had been like to live on Earth. Both Mary and her son had been poor and mistreated.

Thus, with the hope that they would understand her need for help, she offered God and any of his family members who may be listening in a hesitant prayer. Assuming they had time for someone like her.

She moved on from that statue after a short while as she heard the mass continue. As comforting as the very human image of a mother and child was, it undermined the image she had in her mind of the powerful father of all humanity.

She could not understand the words she heard, but everything still sounded beautiful.

As long as God wasn't distracted by the mass and still had time to listen to her, this was her one chance to petition Him on behalf of her people.

Thus she looked into the eyes of a stained glass portrayal of Jesus, hoping to see a sign of kindness there. It was in so doing that she finally felt the presence of God all around her. She'd known she'd find Him if she just kept searching! At last, she did make one request on her own behalf.

Silently, she stood in the light of the rose window, and asked if she could be called the child of God, and if one day Jesus would take her to Heaven, whether or not she deserved that gift.

In the wake of her prayer, she was overwhelmed with a sense of peace. Even though she knew the world would not change and become more pleasant and accommodating, she still knew that there was something brighter filling her heart that could defeat any shadow that threatened to consume her.

The moment of peace was utterly shattered by a man shouting at the bell ringer, demanding to know why he dared to be in the presence of those attending the church service after the trouble he'd caused.

As Esmeralda turned she saw how frightened the young man was, how he fumbled around after he'd been caught in everyone's midst.

"Wait!" she called after him as he began to hurry up the stairs. "I want to talk to you!"

Her voice echoed back at her as she called up the staircase after him. However, he gave her no response.

She'd just have to catch him.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

Phoebus had to get out of the rain. He was at least satisfied by knowing that Esmeralda, his lovely new friend, was safe from Frollo, at least for the forty days until her Sanctuary ran out.

Before he could leave the square and find his town house, or at least the nearest inn in sight, one of the soldiers approached him.

"Sir!" the fellow said. "A message has arrived for you from the Goldelaurier family! They request your presence immediately, and I am to show you to their home in case you've forgotten where it is."

Phoebus stared grimly down at the man, wondering when his weary bones would ever catch a break. It had been non-stop action the whole day, and in spite of his armor, his haunches still ached from when that goat had attacked him.

Still, he was a gentleman, and did not wish for anyone to think otherwise. Besides, there was bound to be a roaring fire at the Gondelaurier place, and they'd serve him food free of charge. Thus in spite of the fact that he knew he would be in for an ordeal, he followed the soldier to the grand town home.

He could already see the firelight within, and as he was eager to be inside, he bid his guide step inside with him and warm himself before leaving.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir," the fellow said, "I know the lady of the house would disapprove." With that, he departed just as the door was opened by a serving man.

"Do come in, Captain Phoebus. I will see your horse to the stable."

Once inside, Phoebus eagerly removed his gloves, and saw that the lady of the house was approaching. This was the same Aunt Aloise he remembered from the times she'd visited the de Chateaupers household when he was a child. She even wore the same clothes, and Phoebus was somewhat assured that fashion trends had changed since his childhood… but what did he know?

"Ah, my dear boy!" the woman exclaimed with arms outstretched. "I heard what happened at the Festival, today! I'm so glad to see you unscathed!"

Phoebus accepted and reciprocated the kisses to both of his cheeks, and when the greeting was finished, he noticed his betrothed cousin, Fleur de Lys, approaching.

" _Bon Nuit_ , Phoebus," she said in a soft and airy voice. She looked very much like his sister Selene in that moment, and he wasn't sure if he was comforted by the similarities she bore to his dear twin, or unnerved for by the same cause. Either way, he bowed to her, and kissed her hand when she offered it to him.

"I hope you fair ladies were spared the excitement today," he said in his most genial tone.

"Oh, yes!" Fleur pressed a hand over her heart. "I heard all about it, though. I heard that the monster of Notre Dame came down from the tower and while he was being punished, a witch set him free! Amelotte de Montmichel thinks they're in the same coven!"

Phoebus was so taken aback, he was sure he looked like an imbecile.

"You've only just arrived in Paris today, and now you've had to see such terrible things all at once!" Madame Aloise crossed herself and guided Phoebus to a chair.

"Honestly, I saw much worse at war…" he said quietly, before deciding that perhaps that was not something he ought to say in front of ladies.

"And you can tell us all about it in time, poor man! Please relax and we shall lift your spirits!"

At the word 'spirits,' Phoebus's ears pricked. "Can I have some wine?" he asked in what he hoped was still a gracious tone.

"Oh, la!" Madame Aloise clapped her hands, and called for wine as Phoebus began to remove his armor.

By the time a servant had appeared with wine, Phoebus was rolling his shoulder in relief at no longer bearing the weight of his pauldrons.

"Ah, yes!" he grinned when he saw the label. "I do love a good Burgundy!"

"Only the best," Madame Aloise fawned over him.

Phoebus made an effort to be polite, so he drank slowly. Still, he relished the warmth that spread through him as he drank down the wine, and leaned back to enjoy it. He was distracted from the quick onset of his descent into slumber by a voice altogether too close to his shoulder.

"When are we to be married, Phoebus?" asked the lilting voice of Fleur.

He blinked at her pretty little face and asked what he thought must be one of the most foolish questions available to his lethargic mind: "Is that up to me?"

The pause which followed seemed to imply that it was, but Madame Aloise quickly swept those assumptions aside. "I have been in correspondence with your parents, my son, and they plan to come down to the city to see that you are settled sometime during the fortnight, depending on when your sister recovers from her illness."

Phoebus nearly catapulted out of his chair and Fleur had to save him from spilling his wine. "Is something the matter with Selene?" he asked breathlessly.

Madame Aloise gave him a gently indulgent smile. "Oh, they do not think it is a true illness, merely God's sign that she is flowering into motherhood… had you not heard of that?"

"I…" Phoebus blushed as both women awaited his response.

Why had he been unaware that his sister was pregnant, but their cousins had heard? How much had happened that he hadn't heard of?

"Uh…" he coughed, finding himself rather pathetic since he was unable to answer the simplest of questions. "I suppose they were unable to get the message to me before I left camp…" as unlikely as that seemed to him, neither of the ladies appeared to be disappointed with his reply.

His mother and Selene had both been in constant contact with him… it must have been a mistake… or they did not want him to know. Were they worried that if somehow there were a miscarriage or his niece or nephew was born and then died, he would be too tormented on the battlefield to fight? Well… he'd tell himself that for the time being, at least until he could get back into contact with his family.

"No matter! Do not worry about it, dear boy! Be glad that the first of your nieces or nephews is on the way!"

Phoebus smiled at last, imagining how excited Selene must be. He wished he were at the chateau to watch her bouncing around with glee as she rambled about all the wonderful things she would do with her little child the moment she could. She'd arrange a ball if she could find enough guests, whether it was a son or a daughter, she'd festoon the child's wardrobe with silk and lace… God's hands why wasn't he there with Selene?

"I can see we've upset you," Fleur said, "did my silly mother upset you? She's always so silly and doesn't always know what she's saying, poor old bat."

Phoebus glanced from Fleur to Madame Aloise, embarrassed on behalf of his betrothed. "No, it's just… I ought to go find my town home… it's somewhere outside the Isle de Cite, I have…" he fumbled around in his clothing for the pouch where he'd kept the little vellum notice. He held it up in the light, and read off the address.

"I can have one of my men take you there, straightaway," said Madame Aloise. "If my daughter does not think that offer is too backward and foolish."

Fleur blushed, and Phoebus was glad she had some shame until he spoke up and said, "Why must you send him away, Mother? I haven't seen my betrothed in years!"

"In fairness, as much as I'm glad to have your company, I believe it is late enough that I ought to get some sleep." He got to his feet and began to load all his armor back onto his body. It was really the only way he could carry it, but still the weight going back onto his aching muscles made him sigh lightly at the burden.

"Why must you go?" Fleur stood at his side again, and beseeched him with her wide blue eyes. "We've got a guest room, you could sleep here!"

Phoebus looked down into those eyes, and saw coldness there, behind her begging for him to stay. He recalled the way she'd spoken of the bell ringer, calling him a monster, and condemning Esmeralda without ever having seen her…

 _Esmeralda_ … the thought of her brought up images of how she'd stood up to the overwhelming power of Frollo, even in the face of arrest and torture. She'd risked her very life in the defense of an undeniably hideous person and there had been no inherent benefit for her.

This girl would do no such thing, and Phoebus realized what a terrible fit she would be in his family. Even though they had selected her, he didn't think they truly knew her. Perhaps it didn't matter, but he'd always been raised with an emphasis on charity and mercy. Where had that been in Fleur's upbringing? Where was her civility? She certainly was not acting like a lady.

Which was not to say Esmeralda would be a particularly well-suited replacement… even if she weren't a peasant, or a street dancer, she was still not French. What a scandal it would be if he brought an Egyptian home!

But why was he even thinking of that option? He shook himself internally, and returned his attention to the woman at his elbow.

"I must go," he told Fleur quietly, and he hoped that it sounded as if he were actually compelled, and not as if he were being cold towards her. "I must, for instance, find my home and get myself situated."

Before he could leave, he heard someone at the door. Fleur stood in his path so that he could not get to the door without pushing her out of the way in a rather ungentlemanly manner, and Madame Aloise went to the door, instead.

There stood a soldier, with a missive. "Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers, you are hereby summoned by Master Frollo. Follow me, please."

That wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping to hear, as the option to be with Frollo or Fleur offered little in the way of relief, but at least he was out of this particular awkward situation.

"He was just about to leave," Madame Aloise wrapped her arm around Fleur's, and smiled ingratiatingly.

"Duty calls," Phoebus said with a bow, "I hope you ladies enjoy the rest of your evening." With that, he left, taking the burden of imagining his life married to Fleur de Lys weighing on his heart, just as heavily as his apprehension as to what Frollo may want him to do.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

Esmeralda thought she must have been chasing down the bell ringer for hours. She was not used to stairs, much less so many of them. Still, she kept climbing until she reached the top of the tower and found Quasimodo just up ahead.

He cried out in alarm, and ran into one of the bell towers, apparently having thought she wouldn't make it that far. She didn't know for sure if that was what he thought, but part of her was gleeful at having shattered that expectation.

Finally she caught him in the bell tower, and panted out, "There you are! I thought I'd lost you!"

Quasimodo, standing in the midst of three gargoyles, stammered out something akin to speech, managed to vaguely communicate that he had meant to evade her.

It was no wonder, after the way she'd exposed him to public ridicule. She did all she could to assure him that she meant him no harm, and was grievously ashamed of the fact that she had been responsible for pulling him unwilling upon the scaffold.

By the time she was done explaining this to him, she stood in the midst of glimmering lights, and a table upon which a thin white cloth obscured what she was sure would be another wonder, as well. Awestruck, she nearly forgot she was not alone.

"Is this where you live?" she asked through her vacant stare.

There was a cot in the shadows, though she could only see the end of it behind a massive sculpted head. The head didn't look like it belonged to anything in particular—but ah! She could not allow herself to get too distracted at a time like this!

He replied that indeed, he did, and there she was, off babbling. She could hardly keep track of her own words, even as she marveled, "You have all this room to yourself?"

Indeed, her tent could fit neatly in a corner of this tower… ah, but who would need a tent when one was enveloped in stone? No rain could penetrate! No wind could knock it down! No drunken relatives could trip over the tent pegs and make it spring apart!

She was losing her proper trial again. Without noticing, Esmeralda had fallen into casual conversation with the Bell Ringer— _Quasimodo_ —as if she had known him for years. It was easy to focus on art: it was a language they both spoke.

It was then she noticed, after playing with the hanging scraps of stained glass which hung above the central table was that she had yet to discover what lay beneath the cloth.

Intent on the wonder she may uncover, she took hold of the cloth upon the table, asking, "What's this?" and revealing a table full of miniature Parisian buildings.

Vaguely she realized after having done so that there had been some momentary resistance from her host. Still, she was much too transfixed to heed that realization much longer than it took to register in her mind. She had found familiar faces and even the distinctive frames of people she frequently encountered on the streets.

"It's the blacksmith…" she mused, picking up said figure, then discarding him in favor of, "the baker!"

Suddenly she was struck with how little attention she had paid to her host, and how she really was not expressly welcome in his home. She turned to Quasimodo with a genuine, almost childish smile. "You're a surprising person," Quasimodo," she told him honestly.

There was a light in his eyes, and she was certain it had not simply been reflected off the stained glass. This was his impetus to swing about the tower introducing her to its every feature. He offered to show her the bells, naturally, there could be no avoiding that, but after he had named them all for her, he paused to explain to her that no, the church did not have one of those magical printing machines.

"Why would you even suggest a thing like that?" he asked her in horror.

"I… thought this was a place where knowledge was kept," she explained sheepishly. "Wouldn't you want to print off the holy word of God for everyone?" Was she guilty of some kind of sin for hoping she may get a cast-off copy? Or perhaps even help to make her own?

She had tiles for teaching Djali how to spell, but she heard tales of the incredible range of the press. Could she learn how to read proper stories?

Just as her thoughts were climbing to new heights of delusion, she saw the snaggle-toothed mouth of her companion hanging open in dismay. "I thought when I saw your ankles it was bad enough…" he whispered.

"And I can see your arms, what's your point?"

Quasimodo shook himself. "I-It's improper… b-but I-I guess if it's n-not to you…" he looked down, a fringe of his hair falling over his bad eye. "Anyway, my Master says that the printing press is going to tear down the Cathedral… you understand, right? It's my home…"

Esmeralda furrowed her brow, trying to make sense of that assertion, before at last she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "Quasi, that's ridiculous. So more people will learn to read, do you know what that means?"

He quite obviously didn't, as he only gave her a questioning look. Still he made an attempt. "I-if… people can just make books… they won't need scriptoriums anymore."

That was a word she didn't know and so she stood just as blankly as he had been. "I… guess?"

Her hesitation emboldened Quasimodo, who said, "And then w-we won't need cathedrals to show us the stories… we'll just have printed books."

"But once we have more books, there'll be more people who can read them," she asserted, now uncertain of her conclusion. What _was_ a scriptorium?

"But then people won't listen to the priest, anymore, and then they won't know what God wants to tell us all!" Quasimodo began to shake with panic, and even his bad eye was widening.

"I think… if more people can read the bible… and other books, they'll start to know more. And then maybe more people will actually understand."

Quasimodo pouted, and she realized that she'd said something that Frollo would disagree with. If that was going to be a problem it was only going to get worse.

"Maybe not everything you've been told is true," she said gently, but she saw Quasimodo shut down further.

He brushed wordlessly past her, but he only got a few steps further before he turned and asked if she wanted to see something beautiful.

The opportunity to move past questioning Frollo was one she took eagerly, especially since he was implying she would see something more stunning than anything else he'd shown her.

As she followed him the short distance, she began to wonder if it wouldn't be so bad to spend more time in the cathedral. Even if she _would_ constantly dodge Frollo, who could be lingering in any shadow, at least she could stay with a friend.

She dared to dream for a moment as the sunset caught her eyes, and the breeze stirred her soul. She was like a queen atop this mountain of stone and glass, but of course that was a lie. Still half in her dream, she told Quasimodo that really, she couldn't stay in the cathedral forever.

"Well… Sanctuary _does_ end after a certain point, but there's a nice cell right off the basilica, you could stay there! I'll even fetch you some fresh straw!"

 _Cell_ was not the most appealing word Quasimodo could have used, but even if he'd used a better one, the thought was growing less and less like a dream. It would only end in two ways, she realized. Either she would be hanged, like a proper witch or criminal, or… something worse… whatever the mad judge felt like doing with her.

She'd heard tales of his dungeon, she'd seen men and women who'd been in it as they stood weeping upon the scaffold, bloodied and mired in filth with none to bandage them or care for them or speak their final rites.

That could be her, shivering on the scaffold as everyone stared at her and waited to collect spoils, a lock of hair or a scrap of her shift…

Quasimodo saw her fear, though she was attempting to hide it. "Come away from the edge," he offered as his misdiagnosis.

Esmeralda stared into the gathering shadows as she contemplated what was to become of her. She could hardly dance in a church, they'd cast her out at their earliest opportunity… so how was she to eat? "How often does Frollo visit you?" she asked.

"Oh! Every day!" Quasimodo replied eagerly.

Esmeralda shivered. "Every day… every day he will hunt for me, and every day I will run."

He frowned at her. "My master would respect that you have sanctuary."

"Do you know _why_ I had to claim sanctuary?" she demanded, knowing she had been too coarse in the asking as the hurt welled up in Quasimodo's good eye. "It's because he chased me here… he called this my prison…" she shivered again, and could feel his hand about her throat once more, like a noose that reached for her to choke away her life's breath… "He told me gypsies don't do well inside stone walls…"

"He would know," Quasimodo said, the darkest words she'd ever heard him speak.

She jumped, startled that he would admit a thing like that, but saw that he was instantly attempting to soothe her.

"Well, but y-you're not like other gypsies! You're not like the evil ones!"

She stared at him a moment longer, wondering what tales Frollo had told him. Did he, too, know what happened within the stone walls beneath the Palace of Justice? He would be in the prime place to witness every execution in the square below… did he relish them as the moment evil was snuffed out of the world?

"I still don't understand how such a cruel man could raise someone like you," she said evenly as she forced her fear to curl into a corner of her mind.

As if sensing her fear, Djali nudged her arm with her head, and Esmeralda drew the little goat's warmth close against her.

"Cruel? Oh, not at all! He saved my life! He tells me the story often," Quasimodo nodded his head to the unasked question of, "is that so?" Without prompting, he continued, "It's how I got m-my name! It was Quasimodo Sunday, and orphans were set out in front of the cathedral so that someone could have the pick of us… and I was…" he trailed off before adding in a much quieter voice, "… a monster…" he looked down at his massive, calloused hands, and Esmeralda took one.

"You don't look like a monster to me," she told him, and it was true.

Odd, sure, but there was kindliness in those eyes, a spark of genius to go with it. His hand was warm and powerful, but the full extent of his strength was restrained in favor of gentleness.

"Oh, I know what I look like," he contradicted her. "But, thanks for saying… anyway, Frollo didn't let anyone drown me, they kept saying they would. For the good of all Paris, you know, they thought…"

"I'm looking at your hand right now," Esmeralda said softly, "and I don't see a single monster line. I see a long life line. That means you're going to live a long, healthy life, which is a blessing from God, no? Why would he bless a monster?" She willed meaning into her every syllable, praying to the god downstairs that it would be enough. "If you look at my hand, do you see evil?"

Quasimodo stuttered out a horrified declaration that, far from it, he saw her as kind, to which she responded that if she was those things, and also a gypsy, it proved that Frollo had been wrong.

The revelation hit Quasimodo harder than she'd thought it would, as after silent moments of contemplation, he said, "I can get you out of here." He said it not out of shyness, but out of his instinct which told him this was a dangerous undertaking, one which would force him over a threshold forever.

"There are guards at every door," she reminded him reluctantly. She wanted him to breach that threshold to freedom, and the sooner he did it, the sooner that nightmare of her future would evaporate… for the moment.

"I'm not saying we would use a door," Quasimodo replied in a hushed voice, and glanced at the ramparts.

"You're not suggesting we would _climb_ down, are you?" she asked in dismay.

"Sure, why not? That's how I got to the Festival, today… All you would have to do is hold onto Djali, and I'll carry you."

Instantly the fear of her impending doom hit Esmeralda, and her heart twisted itself into apprehensive knots. Yet, would it be better to fall to her death that night, and find her freedom, or to live a prisoner with the weight of her impending death pressing down on her from all sides?

Her mind was instantly made up. "Let me spare a moment to pray," she said. "If we are to do this thing, I want the best luck possible, first."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

By his every estimation, Phoebus had never selected a rundown inn as a possible place to meet with Frollo. It was simply not in the man's nature to indulge in the simple frivolities of merrymaking and drink. Yet still, it was to such a humble establishment that the bewildered captain was led.

The messenger accompanied him inside before whirling on him with an outstretched palm, and giving him an expectant look.

Phoebus had no sooner paid the man than a hand was clapping against his back, or at least the armored shell he inhabited.

"The sun god has returned to illuminate the mortals of the earth!" a jovial voice announced, and with a cry of astonishment, Phoebus turned his head so that he could gaze not upon _Claude_ but _Jehan_ Frollo.

" _Mon Dieu_! I had thought you'd be unreachable, university man!" Phoebus exclaimed, staring at the tall but otherwise narrowly built Jehan.

Though he had the same nose as his brother, Jehan wore it better. Possibly that was due to the spot of red on the tip, which accompanied a nearly constant grin and made him look rather like a harlequin about to break into pantomime at any moment. Or perhaps it was because his eyes were alight with the joy of life, and not shadowed by years of brooding on the misdeeds of all Paris.

"Oh, fie on the university! I saw you at the Festival today," Jehan said.

"Then why didn't you come and say hello?" Phoebus asked.

"Because then my brother would have seen me! I can't _stand_ to be seen out in public with my brother, he always tells me how to act!"

Phoebus tried to justify that in some manner by saying, "He is a public official, you know, he has appearances to maintain."

"And I don't? I have one thing my brother does not!"

"A tab?" Phoebus suggested as he noticed Jehan had seated himself beside a row of empty tankards.

"Besides that," Jehan waved him off with a knowing smirk. "Friends! And none of them want to be around me when they see _Claude_! Do you know what he did to my friend Gaspard last month? Hm?"

Phoebus stared at the counter, the way the wood was damaged in places that looked suspiciously akin to the way armor would after its wearer had been on the front lines a bit too long, and tried to find an answer for him.

Jehan snapped his fingers. "He was fined! Fined out his ears! Because you know, it's illegal to have too much fun in front of my brother!"

Phoebus raised a brow at Jehan. "But what kind of fun—?"

"Ah, that doesn't matter! It was all a jest!"

Phoebus rolled his eyes, it was impossible to explain to Jehan that order was important to some people, and he didn't feel like ruining an encounter with his one friend in the entire capitol.

"So how has it been to hog all the glory the French army has to offer?" Jehan asked. "I hear you annoy everyone else on the battlefront by mopping the floor with the enemy too quickly for any other soldiers to earn their honor."

Phoebus ruminated silently over the time he had spent fighting for his life by the edge of his blade and the points of his men's arrows. "I wouldn't say I earned my accolades because I prevented anyone else from accumulating honors," he said solemnly. "I believe I earned respect among the ranks because I fought hardest out of most officers to bring my men back to their tents at night, breathing rather than bleeding." Absently, he asked for some of the house wine, without looking up from the grain of the counter before him.

It was vaguely the same shade as the vellum on which the officers kept the war maps, on which men's lives were moved forward as pins to be measured by the hundred, not the individual. The lines swam before him like the expressions of archers he had seen cut down by the same insidious weapon they wielded, while he himself remained untouched by some dint of fate.

"You need a drink, sun god," Jehan slurred from somewhere far away, and Phoebus realized that his wine had arrived. "You're starting to look like Claude," Jehan added with a blunt sneer.

Instantly, Phoebus downed the wine, as if in doing so he could drown whatever part of him had begun to resemble Frollo. The warmth of the wine embraced him from within, spreading to his uttermost and drawing him into the buzzing environment he truly inhabited, rather than his battle scars.

"I have to ask," Phoebus said at last, "what _happened_ to old Claude? I remember once upon a time, he was the best older brother someone could ask for—well, except for Achille."

"Oh, hang Claude!" Jehan took another swig. "Hang him a thousand times over! He won't give me nearly as much money as he used to!"

Phoebus raised his brow and was about to probe the issue before he realized that Jehan had already cracked the shell of the topic and the guts were spewing out.

"Once I went to university he started telling me how to live my life! If I want to drink with my mates instead of spending all my time reading, then how is it his business? He would see me turned out on the street!"

Phoebus kept his smart mouth firmly in his tankard, refusing to remark on how if Jehan would only focus on his studies and not drink away his money, there would be no such weighty premonition. He began to feel just a mite guilty for spending his time drinking beside Jehan when clearly he had a problem.

"He spends more and more of his time studying alchemy in the Palace of Justice and chasing down street performers!" Jehan exclaimed, waving his tankard about so that the contents began to slosh impotently free. "And does he have time for my problems? No! All he does is scold!"

"How did that happen?" Phoebus asked. "I thought the two of you were the best of friends… or was I wrong?"

"Oh, when I was younger, Claude was a parent like no other! I was made accustomed to the ways of Aristotle and Plato, sure, but at least he would let me muck about as well! Ah, but _now_ he goes and visits _Quasimodo_ every day! And he taught that hobgoblin to _read_ , can you believe it?"

Phoebus had to admit, he was finding it less and less a simple matter to think fondly of his old friend. He recalled playing tennis with Jehan while Claude kept score, sitting in the shadows, and was always fair. There was never a jot of favoritism.

That was what Phoebus had always thought made him a good judge… but perhaps there was something else there… officiousness that demanded no compromises be made, coldness that would show no mercy. That was what he had seen in the judge's eyes that morning, and when he had ordered Phoebus to arrest the innocent Egyptian for daring to show kindness to the bell ringer.

"I don't even know how Quasimodo _hears_ those lessons, he's probably at least half deaf by now!" Jehan was ranting.

Phoebus drank more of his wine. If only he could drink away the memories… drink away the nightmares… men screaming as their lives spurted out of them like the fountains which fed an infernal garden… He drank again. Why was he seeing them still more clearly? Why did the images swim closer to his heart the more he tried to wash them away?

"Nowadays my brother is always ranting about how some newfangled contraption, or this discovery or that, will destroy the world. Yesterday it was about some printing press he says is going to forever destroy architecture…" Jehan massaged his temple. "God help me forget… ah, look! Bacchus came to my aid!" he gulped down more wine.

Envy stabbed Phoebus to the quick. Did he have to drink as much as Jehan had in order to quell the tempest?

"What's the matter?" Jehan asked, setting a hand on Phoebus's pauldron.

Phoebus finally realized how out of place he must look, among the common peasants, and yet nobody had come to make something of it. That was fortunate, at least… he didn't need another scene like there'd been that morning…

Suddenly more recent memories began to sweep their way to the front lines of his mind. The Egyptian, caught behind a detail of guards instructed to arrest her on sight… He had helped her to claim Sanctuary, but he was no closer to seeing her again, nor had he prevented Frollo's skeletal hands from reaching out to ensnare her.

Except that now, he sat shoulder to shoulder with Judge Claude Frollo's brother, and perhaps, he also sat beside her salvation.

"You know what I think I need?" he whispered conspiratorially to Jehan. "I think I need to pray at Notre Dame."

"But my brother has the Cathedral locked down," Jehan slurred, just a little perplexed.

"That's what makes it fun."


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to geniusgringoire, with whom I first played out this scenario. The entire Pierre Gringoire plot thread that I'm going to explore is a direct result of the partnership we formed while we role played the scenario, even as my version shifts through the lack of recent collaboration and my desire to maintain a line of distinction between their work and my own. Should this ever meet your eyes, my friend, I hope to make you smile.

Chapter 11:

The cathedral echoed with empty silence, much like the mausoleums Esmeralda and her family sometimes hid within while the cemetery was being patrolled. The arches overhead made up the ribs of some cavernous skeleton, and Esmeralda longed for the peaceful refuge it had been when she first arrived.

She approached the altar of a small side chapel, and was beginning to pray when she heard a voice from close by, muttering from the floor.

There in the shadows, she found a shivering man, squatting in the corner, with a broad-rimmed hat flopping over his head like a leaf which had been rained on too long, and no longer held tightly enough to the tree on which it lived to lie flat. Beneath the hat, the man seemed rather small, but perhaps he was too distorted by the way he sat shivering for her to perceive his true outline.

"Pardon me, is something wrong?" she asked, crouching slightly so that she would not appear threatening, which she knew at times she could.

The fellow seemed to see her for the first time, and gaped at her in the weak points of moonlight which reached through the windows, and the occasional point of candlelight. " _You_ are _La Esmeralda_!" he breathed at her, as if as he spoke her name he was invoking a prayer. "I saw you dance today!"

Esmeralda squinted at his features, attempting to remember a time when she had seen his face. "I am," she replied slowly.

" _Esmeralda_!" she heard Quasimodo's voice hiss through the shadows, and she whipped her head about to see him perched on the railing of the walkway above, just opposite her.

She had known he wanted to maintain a distance between them so that if Frollo entered the Cathedral, he would not see them together, but from this distance, she could no longer see the friendliness that made him easier to speak with.

Perched as he was, Quasimodo resembled an owl with eyes that glinted in the candlelight and make him look truly menacing and monstrous for the first time.

 _What do you want_? She dared not ask him.

"Is that the hunchback?" the man on the floor asked her.

"Yes," Esmeralda replied slowly, and turned from Quasimodo to the fellow she'd discovered. "Who are you?"

She saw the man's shoulders jump as if he were realizing he'd forgotten to do something, just before he hopped to his feet. It was a movement much like Clopin's she thought, but perhaps it was due to how wiry both their frames were.

"Ah! _Mademoiselle_! I am but a humble petitioner at your feet! I am he that writes poems and plays which are sung to me when I am abed by the very angels! The name they say was given to me when I was christened is Pierre Gringoire!" he exclaimed, removing his large floppy hat and bowing. "I am a poet, a playwright, and an itinerant wanderer!"

Esmeralda found herself smirking at this fellow, dismayed that by his accent he sounded like an upper-class Parisian, but he was clearly no such person. It hardly seemed likely that he was a well-liked poet from how overblown he was.

Had he once been well-off? Or had he simply always affected the accent in order to give off the idea that he was something greater than he was? She had known both in her time, but it remained to be seen whether he fell into one category or the other.

"How nice," she responded blandly, maintaining strict neutrality to avoid offending him.

"I thought today would mark my first success… I've tried my hand at nearly every trade, from beggar to monk… and now my play has been rejected by the people…" He clutched his hat in his hands, and pressed it to his chest as if he were a shield that would defend him.

"That is sad…" Esmeralda said as she realized that this was the self-same playwright who Clopin had harassed that morning. If only she had apologized for his behavior…

"Now I don't know what I shall do," Pierre continued. "My life was to culminate at this point…" He appeared to be looking to her for more than sympathy. He needed a place to go.

"Why not go back to your parents?" Esmeralda asked softly. It was a tender subject for her, so she was prepared for it to prove equally so for her new acquaintance.

As she had thought, Gringoire bowed his head. "Would that such venue were open to my feet that I may walk it," he said, long-winded even in this.

"In which case… there is one place for outcasts like us to go if we are out of other options… where we can find friends, family even… you have heard the tale…" she checked over her shoulder at the owlish Quasimodo, who was holding himself utterly still. Was he listening?

She ought not be concerned with whether Quasimodo heard, she scolded herself. Just because he was close with Frollo did not necessarily mean that he would betray her people to their doom.

"The Court of Miracles?" Pierre asked, all but panting at the thought. "It is _legendary_!"

"Well, I'll tell you how to find it…" she considered giving him the amulet she wore… or _one_ of them… but words were better for this sort of fellow, and the map would serve another better. "You surely know a passage to the catacombs, don't you?"

Pierre nodded eagerly, and so she whispered that if he could get to the passages beneath the cemetery just on the other side of the Seine, he would without fail be directed to the Court of Miracles, and then he should say who sent him, because Clopin would surely accept him as one of the many who resided there due to their great need and the threat of Frollo's constant purges.

At the conclusion of these instructions, another thought occurred to her, and her brows rose, and she clapped her hands. "Both our prayers have been answered!" she cried. "Listen to me, Pierre!" she leaned closer, grabbing him by the doublet to force him closer so he could hear. "Quasimodo shall take me from the cathedral, but I don't trust the soldiers to be stupid enough to miss us… when we leave… I want you to distract them. Can you do that? Are you such an actor?"

In the shadows she could still see Pierre's eyes widen, and knew that her words had connected with his imagination… However, too late she fretted that he could reveal her to the soldiers for coin.

She waited breathlessly until Pierre drew himself taller. "I shall do it!" he declared with no small degree of theatricality.

"Good! I want you to wait, before you do… there will be some time before we are prepared…"

"La Esmeralda! You do not know my work! I can speak for a long, long, long, long…"

A powerful arm wrapped around Esmeralda and swept her backward off the ground, with a bleating Djali, before Pierre had even said his last, "long."

"I'm glad I couldn't hear him," Quasimodo noted as he hurried Esmeralda up the stairs. "He could've kept you there until dawn!"

Esmeralda rolled her eyes, hoping silently that the poet could memorize her instructions as clearly as one of his poems… or perhaps better… she'd never actually heard him recite one.

The trip down the side of the church was so swift all Esmeralda remembered of it was how she had been sure her cries would bring her death to her on the edge of a soldier's sword.

Except that it didn't.

A loose roof tile flew into the alley some ways off and crashed loudly, sending the guards closest to their position in that direction, meanwhile on the other end of the church, she could hear Pierre's elaborate distraction methods.

Hopefully the poor fellow didn't get himself pilloried for being annoying, but at least that was the worst possible crime he could get pinned with, unlike her.

They posed frozen against the statue of some saint or other, Esmeralda would not know the difference, until they saw all the torchlight fade into the distance. Then, Esmeralda dared to breathe, sitting at the saint's feet.

Quasimodo crouched beside her, looking almost as exhilarated as she was. It occurred to her that this was only his second time outside the walls.

It was time to strike at the chains that bound him to the prison, the _magnificent_ prison Frollo had kept him in all his life.

"You should come with me," she said the moment he'd stuttered out something about how he would never forget her. She hoped her eyes were as wide with excitement as she wanted them to be, and that her voice was just as full of glee as Clopin's usually was.

He recoiled from the suggestion, putting up one beefy arm to defend himself from her. "What?" he gasped, and she knew there was a long road to walk before he was willing to completely let himself free of his shackles…

Still, knowing that the guards could return at any moment, Esmeralda made one last play. To stop his babbling, she kissed his cheek, which tranquilized the fuss out of him.

"If _you_ ever need Sanctuary," she said, pulling one of her amulets carefully out of hiding, and showing it to him, "this will show you the way."

He stared transfixed at it.

If he were submitted to torture, or even if Frollo questioned him without physical threat, he could not be allowed to give the most direct answer to the questioning. Instead, what Esmeralda gave Quasimodo was a riddle, " _When you wear this woven band, you hold the city in your hand_."

He was still confused when they heard the first sign that the guards were returning, and he urged her to go before she could be overtaken.

Though she was ordinarily efficient in her travels home, the heightened security throughout the city forced her to take roundabout paths and pause in alleyways to avoid capture.

However, at last, she and Djali arrived back in their home, only when she did, she discovered a hostile crisis rather than her family's welcoming arms.

As if a play were being reprised before her eyes, Esmeralda saw that a bedraggled young man was squirming on the scaffold as Clopin reached for the lever to snuff out his life… She had seen this play before, heard the jeers and laughter… But she had watched impotently before as an ending befell the first to take up this role.

She recognized the hapless poet she had sent to the Court that very night, and her guilt threatened to consume her. Though she wanted to scream, instead, her voice was bunched up in her throat like a wad of cotton threatening to gag her just as surely as poor Gringoire.

Fortunately for her, the others who saw her announced, "La Esmeralda is back!" for her.

Clopin was much too distracted to pull the lever, he just stared at her as if she were an apparition from the beyond, here to take him along with her to Heaven. He looked more manic than usual, his hair sticking out at all angles as if he'd been mussing it all day. "Essie?" he called down to her as she approached the scaffold.

"I seem to remember another time you were about to kill someone," she said quietly when she was close enough to him. "I _sent_ Pierre Gringoire here," she said, removing the poet's gag.

Or at least, she tried to, before Clopin hurriedly pulled it back into place. "Don't do that, Essie! You don't want to hear that voice!"

Laughter rippled through the uncertain assembly, as the gypsies tried to decide whether or not they were allowed to find that funny.

"How did you get here?" Clopin asked her in a hushed voice.

"With the help of this man," she insisted, again trying to remove the gag from Gringoire. "He was my distraction while Quasimodo helped me down the wall… now… you can't kill him when he helped us. I know what I have to do to save him, and _this time_ I'm old enough." She met Clopin's eyes with the emerald flames of her determination.

"I do owe you a life… but did it have to be this one?" Clopin whined.

She very nearly wanted to slap him, but after what had doubtless been the most terrifying day of his life, Clopin deserved as much of his uncharitable commentary as he wanted. His eyes had softened, and he finally allowed her to remove Gringoire's gag.

"Let's get this overwith," Clopin grumbled, and called for someone to fetch a clay jar, which he foisted into both Esmeralda and Gringoire's hands.

"What is happening?" Pierre asked. "Are you really marrying me? _Sacrebleu_ I am so lucky! None of the other women would—"

"If you value your life, _shut up_ ," she urged him through gritted teeth.

This could still go very badly for him if Clopin decided to prevent his pseudo-relation-of-undefined-terms from marrying. He really didn't _need_ any reason in particular, not when he was so cunning with excuses.

Before Esmeralda had fully realized the ceremony was underway, the pot Clopin had placed in her hand was crashing to the scaffold, as if of its own accord.

"Ah," Clopin sighed. "Only four years…" As if they could really expect to live that long, anyhow.

Esmeralda raised a brow at Clopin. "You're taking this very well."

"You still have your dagger on you, yes?" Clopin asked, squeezing her elbow.

"Of course."

Clopin smirked first at her, then at Gringoire. "I promise to clean up after you if you tire of him. Now, go away, I have new gray hairs to pluck out!" he tweaked her nose, and left her there, standing for all to see on the scaffold, with _her husband_.

"What have I done?" she whispered as the realization crept upon her that she was well and truly married. To this ineffectual stranger nonetheless!

And just when…

Light flashed behind her eyes and a grin penetrated through her imaginings of what life married to Pierre for the next four years might mean.

The answer was clear: _no Phoebus for you, idiot._

"Ah… pardon me, La Esmeralda?" Pierre waved a hand in front of her face, and it occurred to her that he had in fact been speaking to her.

"Just Esmeralda, thanks," she grunted.

"Yes, wife, where do we sleep?" he smiled shyly at her.

"I guess you have to stay in my tent," she grunted, and stalked toward it. "I guess it was too much to expect someone to set it up for me," she said as she noticed it was lying out in its usual space in a bundle. "You!" she pointed irritably at Pierre, though she knew it was no fault of his. "Do you know how to set up a tent?"

"I'd better learn, hadn't I?" he asked, and grinned as if he could smell some fragrant pastry as its scent rose out from the finest of all bakeries.

Esmeralda rolled her eyes, it was really uncharitable of her, she knew, but all she could think of was how she wanted to kick herself for her stupidity. It was twofold: Firstly that she had married a man she was not in love with, and secondly that she was even concerned with how her marital status would affect the relationship she had with Phoebus. What did that matter when she could never marry him, at all?

"I can see something is bothering you, Madame Gringoire, what's the problem?"

Esmeralda had just set up the first two posts of the tent into place when those words crawled up her spine on their needle feet and she very nearly screamed. "I've made a horrible mistake! Don't ever call me that again!" As quickly as she could, she disappeared into her tent, arranging the articles which had been folded up in it into a semblance of a room before moving to set up the next two tent poles.

Gringiore followed her into the tent. "I don't understand, _cherie_! Did—did you want me to die?"

Esmeralda forced herself to take a deep breath. "I… that isn't it… I should never have sent you here… this was never meant to happen."

"So… you _didn't_ fall n love with me for my daring help in your escape?"

She snorted.

"Point taken, no need for explanation! Look… I am eternally grateful, but I know where I'm not wanted… that has always been clear. I won't touch you… but perhaps, with time…?"

"I'm afraid my heart already lives somewhere else… we can be friends, though. A friend is a soul that touches another without becoming one, and that is something I can much more easily accept than becoming one."

"Agreed, after all, we just met!"

She paused, and smiled at him. "You're not so bad… but trust me, you'll need to learn a new skill or you'll attract more trouble than you're worth, poet." She nudged him with one elbow as she set up her own bed, then spared some of her food for his supper.

"Are you sure my poetry won't—"

"Yes. Can you juggle?"

"No," he said as she laid out an extra makeshift bed for him by taking some of the stuffing from her own pallet.

"In that case, someone may have to teach you… That'll be me, won't it?"

"I don't have any other friends… so if you would be so good…?"

She sighed as she settled herself down and Djali curled up beside her. She hadn't realized how tired her limbs were before they began to shudder at finally being capable of relaxing.

"Poet? Do you know of a name called Phoebus?" she asked as her eyes traced the familiar stripes of her tent.

"Oh! Indeed! It is the alternate name of Apollo, god of the sun! He was an archer, and a hopeless lover of women who were always just out of his reach! Oh, and he was a poet!"

"That's enough, thanks… perhaps tomorrow, when I teach you to juggle, you can teach me to spell the name…" she turned over, cuddling her faithful goat as sleep overcame her and she whispered the name to herself, over and over again, until it followed her into her dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

It was like they were children again. Phoebus and Jehan had always been precocious children, the only difference between their current antics and when they were boys was that if Claude caught them, they would go to jail and not just get locked in a closet somewhere… They could even face worse fates, depending on how guilty Frollo's whims decided to call them.

With Jehan as soused as he was, Phoebus was confident that either he would forget their antics the next morning, or he would be so useless in explaining it to Claude when asked that nothing in particular could be pinned on them.

Essentially, Phoebus's unspoken plan was set, but as they approached the cathedral, it had time to reshape itself. Due to the lateness of the hour, it was likely the guards were of lesser quality than in the daylight. They were to be expected that they would be less capable of seeing something anyone escaping the cathedral, so there was that as an advantage.

He was not entirely certain what he would say to Esmeralda when he saw her again. Would he have to apologize? Helping her gain sanctuary was his only plan, and it _had_ worked… so perhaps she had forgiven him for his profession by now.

To start out, he'd need a good opening line, something that would deter him from trying to kill him. Perhaps were he to pay her a compliment? No, she may just get angry if he did something like that.

"What did you do?" Jehan asked, startling Phoebus out of his stupor.

"I don't think I really did much of anything, she's just—" he paused, remembering that _Jehan was not in his mind…_

"Who is she?" Jehan waggled his brows at Phoebus in the moonlight. "So are you telling me this is a social call? Is there one for me?"

Phoebus snickered. "Maybe if you want to visit with _Quasimodo_ … you're such good brothers, aren't you?" he asked.

Jehan made an irritated noise that caused Phoebus to chuckle. "I can at least keep him talking, the idiot can't hear properly so if I keep my voice low he'll be obliged to continually ask me what I've said."

"Is he really such an idiot?" Phoebus inquired.

"If I were feeling charitable, I would admit that he's just a child who's got a bit old without noticing. He ought to be a man, but he doesn't know how."

"I'm surprised at you, Jehan, you were always the one asking for charity, I didn't know you gave it, too."

"Never said I was feeling charitable, did I? Now, save your smart mouth for the soldiers, I see a patrol coming."

Luckily for Phoebus, once within sight of the soldiers, instinct fueled his wit. "Evening, men!" he called into the darkness.

They paused in their patrol, squinting at him.

"It is I, Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers," he explained, "I've come to inspect the patrols."

All the men before him stood at attention, instantly. Word had probably gone out that he was prone to impromptu shaving if he found a soldier was not up to his standards. Their moustaches were practically quivering with fear.

Buoyant from the drink he'd downed, Phoebus's step remained light despite the creeping specter of exhaustion beginning to ease its way nearer to the forefront of his senses. "Have you seen anything suspicious?" he asked, with only a hint of slurring in his voice.

"The bells haven't rung on time," one of the soldiers said. "I think the bell ringer's still sore from this morning."

There was a ripple of laughter among the soldiers, though it was slightly uncomfortable, and more than a little guilty.

"I'm going to scour the church," Phoebus said. "With any luck, we'll frighten the girl into surrendering."

It did not speak well of the soldiers that they nodded vigorously, as if this would work. At least the lie held. Perhaps they only meant to appease their commanding officer and secretly thought it was a poorly conceived idea. Ah, well, Frollo would have a false report of his intentions, if not his movements.

"Is the church locked?" Phoebus asked.

" _Oui_ ," a soldier said.

"Then, I'll have to get creative," Phoebus said, and started off to the side of the church, with the patrol following him as well as Jehan. "I want you to help me test my soldiers," he whispered to the younger Frollo. "While I'm in there, keep them talking, and see if they're able to conduct their patrols as usual. Once I get paid, I'll give you some of my earnings as a reward for helping me discipline my men."

Even as he said it, he heard his predecessor's cries of agony, saw the man's weary sunken eyes, and then Frollo's smirk as he suggested that Phoebus could help to whip the men into shape. Well… at least it would appear that he was doing so…

"Sir? How will you get into the church? The Archdeacon had all the doors barred…"

"I wasn't made a captain for lacking creativity," Phoebus said, stopping at the wall of the church. There were so many weather vane gargoyles grimacing back at him, he saw them for what they were: an opportunity.

He considered taking off his armor in order to make the climb easier, but he rejected the notion. Either the armor would get stolen while he left it in the dark, or someone would see him without it and disbelieve the claims he made regarding his identity.

As he climbed up the side of the church, Phoebus found himself once again rehearsing in his mind what he would say to Esmeralda if he should actually see her.

 _"Good evening_ ," he could say, _"your knight in shining armor has arrived_."

He quickly rejected that idea, as it would probably get him whacked with another candelabrum.

" _I've created a distraction, sorry I couldn't do better earlier_!" That was better! It was to the point, more likely to get out before he had his teeth knocked out.

It seemed inadequate, still, but at least as he turned over such possibilities in his mind, Phoebus was able to keep his mind on that, rather than the pain in his limbs from forcing himself ever higher. He was well aware that should any of the portions of the intricate masonry prove brittle enough, he would fall to his pointless death, but at least he could distract himself with that possibility.

He nearly met his death regardless, however, since the moment he could see the bell tower close by, he heard a thunderous crash, and the patrol below running off to check the alley. Phoebus held perfectly still, frozen so that he could not overreact and plummet to the cobblestones.

Was that someone on the roof attempting to distract the guards for an escape? He'd arrived at the perfect time!

It was a struggle to rise that last bit of distance to the roof, but he maintained his disciplined determination until a hand reached out from above and yanked him up. He'd just looked down in order to enjoy the fact that he'd made it, and also that Jehan was making a fool of the guards who were failing to properly investigate the alley.

Quasimodo!

Phoebus grinned and said, " _Bonne nuit_!" he cried in surprise, his automatic words falling free as he found someone he hadn't been expecting now glaring at him. _Keep it cordial_ , he coached himself. "I'm looking for the Egyptian, have you seen her?"

The sound which then emerged from the hunchback in that moment defeated all of Phoebus's mental faculties as they attempted to categorize it.

Somehow it was simultaneously a wordless shout and a gargled howl. One of the massive, hairy arms of the fellow was swinging at him, and Phoebus instantly let his battle instincts take over.

This undoubtedly saved him from dented armor and broken ribs. He put his arms up in surrender, uncertain what he'd done to call down the other man's fury on his head, but he did his absolute best to calm the fellow down. " _Ho la la_ , _doucement_!" Phoebus cried, backing away from Quasimodo.

He couldn't risk combat with someone he didn't want to harm, for the simple fact that only one of them was armed, and if he were forced to draw his sword, he could seriously wound or kill the poor confused bell ringer.

Phoebus found himself forced into the spiral staircase which led from the top of the bell tower to the sanctuary, while Quasimodo ranted at him about how no soldiers were permitted within the church.

"Wait!" he contended through the volley of insults the hunchback was spewing at him. "All I want is—!"

He was cut off once more as Quasimodo screamed at him to go, but he tried again, "I mean her no harm!"

Somehow still more furious than before, Quasimodo threw his head back and growled out a gravelly scream before grabbing a torch and swinging it at Phoebus.

It was a quarter of a breath in which instinct overcame Phoebus once more, and only once both he and Quasimodo had taken an instant to breathe did he focus on the fact that he was hovering over the stair he'd just been about to step back upon as Quasimodo held him by the front of his armor.

A moment's glance from Quasimodo's furious eyes assured Phoebus that he had successfully pinned the torch Quasimodo had meant to singe his face with to the stone wall.

He took stock of it all and after weighing it all decided that though he did not exactly have the upper hand—his skull could easily crack if Quasimodo threw him backward— he could not speak as if he were at a disadvantage.

Evenly, schooling both his voice and his features into military precision so as to allow the timbre of his voice to carry both authority and self assurance, he spoke. "I want you to tell her, if you see her, that Captain Phoebus did not mean to trap her here… That's my name, by the way. I was the one who told her to claim sanctuary, and I can see how she may have misunderstood."

Quasimodo just stared at him with his grotesque features, which were already twisted by nature, and were not flattered by his fury.

"I had to claim sanctuary for her," he continued with the same rumbling candor, saying, "it was the only way to save her life. I ask that you tell her that, will you do so?"

While Quasimodo did not verbally respond, Phoebus had seen the way his eyes widened for a moment. The trouble was he could not diagnose the cause. Was he still distrustful? He had not set Phoebus down yet… what was he thinking?

" _Will_ you tell her what I said?" Phoebus pressed.

"If you leave immediately!" Quasimodo snarled.

That would have to do. Phoebus wouldn't remain longer than he needed to, it was best to appease this fellow and back down as quickly as possible. "I'll go," he said gently, then put on a smile, the sort which was ordinarily seen as charming. "Now, will you put me down, please?" he asked without showing a hint of how apprehensive he was.

It appeared that Quasimodo had just realized he was holding Phoebus over a much smaller drop than he had recently hung above, but a perilous one, nonetheless. Slowly, Quasimodo set Phoebus down until his feet were firmly upon the stair.

There was a moment during which Phoebus's knees wobbled and he forced them back into submission. He knew there was a long way down, but there was no way he could avoid that.

He was resigned to his sentence of climbing down the stairs without seeing the pretty damsel again, but paused. "Quasimodo…tell her something else if you see her… Tell her how lucky she is." The words were falling from him much more quickly than he could truly comprehend what he was saying, but somehow his smile was still on his face.

Still suspicious, Quasimodo watched Phoebus sheathe his sword. "Why?" he asked.

Phoebus's smile widened as he realized that he was truly assured of what he was about to say. "I'd say she's quite lucky to have a friend like you," he said gently.

With that, he turned from Quasimodo and traversed the dimly lit staircase to the sanctuary where he could see the Archdeacon and several monks beginning to make their rounds through the church and each of its chapels.

The Archdeacon caught sight of Phoebus, and as the candelabras made his features visible, it was clear the old fellow was just as furious at the sight of the captain as Quasimodo had been.

What did these people have against a man's honest work? The answer was simple: Frollo's corruption was broadly self-evident, and there was a great deal of work to do before Parisians learned to trust the law again.

"How did you get in here?" the Archdeacon demanded.

"With great difficulty, don't you worry," Phoebus said, offering the last ounce of charm left in his weary bones.

"Are there more of you?" the priest asked.

" _Nobody_ is quite like me!" Phoebus said, glancing longingly at the door. "If you wouldn't mind… I've done my part here…"

"And what is that?" the Archdeacon and his attendants all stalked furiously toward Phoebus. "Did you harm the girl? You _know_ the penalty for transgressions against the house of God! You saw her claim sanctuary this very day! I heard you admit to it!"

Phoebus raised his hands in the second surrender of the day. "I came to try and help her escape, however, Quasimodo would not let me see her…" his eyes drifted toward the doors once more, but on their way they settled on yet another set of stairs. Now where did they lead?

"What is that?" he asked, pointing at it.

Stunned by the sudden change of topic, the Archdeacon peered at the cell. "That is one of the places where someone who has been granted sanctuary may live, or those who are in the direst need…" The Archdeacon slowly maneuvered himself so that he stood between Phoebus and the stairs.

"Is that where Esmeralda has gone?" Phoebus asked in a low tone which did not echo through the arched room.

"That is none of your business, soldier. You are to leave, at once."

Something was nagging Phoebus, something about how protective Quasimodo had been of the upper floors. Was Esmeralda still up there?

If she were, or recently had been, Quasimodo would likely keep her safe from everyone _except_ Frollo, from whom she had the most to fear. But if she were in the cell, the Archdeacon was her staunchest defender.

Either way, he could discourage a sweep of the church simply, and buy her a little more time before Frollo insisted on pressing the issue.

"I shall go at once," he promised, and began to walk to the door.

"Go and bear in mind your sins, my son," the Archdeacon said. "You cannot condemn the girl, and you know it."

"I don't," Phoebus said, fumbling as his over-strained arms struggled with the board the Archdeacon had undoubtedly been responsible for placing over the door. "I just wish I could see her again." His voice sounded pathetic in his own ears, and he just hoped the Archdeacon did not think less of him—though really how could he?—and left the church.

There among a clump of soldiers was Jehan, and he raised a hand in greeting, about to tell him that there was good news… except that he couldn't.

He shouldn't tell Jehan what he knew, not when the younger Frollo had no particular reason not to tell the elder something about Esmeralda, especially if there would be money or pain involved.

"How was it?" Jehan asked, and Phoebus saw him puffing himself up in front of the soldiers to make himself look more important.

"She still claims sanctuary, and she's living in the cell," Phoebus shrugged. "It's just too bad, I thought she might surrender. But I can't defy sanctuary or the church will be able to contest the legitimacy of our case against her."

The soldiers nodded as if they fully understood what he'd said, and to their credit, there may have been those who did.

This was really too much work for one day, and his first day in Paris was yet to draw to a close! He had yet to even see his town home, the first permanent structure in which he could rest his head in… had it really been years?

His eagerness to release himself once again from the burdensome shell of his armor and lay down his weary head began to overtake him before he'd even left the _Ile de Cite._ In his weariness, he didn't even register the fact that Jehan was still on his heels.

At the door, however, as he was fumbling for the key which had been sent to him, he glanced at Jehan. "You've been very helpful, Jehan, I hope that's the sign of a bright future ahead of you. Someday you may be helpful a whole week in a row!"

"I _have been_ very, _very_ helpful tonight, haven't I?" Jehan asked, his eyes glittering in the lamplight.

Phoebus sighed heavily. "What do you want?"

"It's just that it's going to be _dawn_ soon, and you wouldn't want your friend stumbling around the streets all night, would you? I haven't got the money for a night in an inn…"

The younger Frollo brother may be a good-for-nothing in general, but Phoebus was not unfeeling, nor did he have the heart or the energy to turn him out. "You're free to spend the evening in some… corner here," he said, gesturing around the clumsily provisioned town home. Some servants had undoubtedly been there to prepare it for him, but of course he hadn't much in the way of belongings.

He recognized the handiwork of his own mother in some of the décor, but the lilies on his poor emasculated table were all down to Selene. Only she would go to the trouble to arrange a thing like that, her own way of saying that she cared.

Well, he'd have to dispose of them in some courteous way before he was forced to host someone serious in his house. It would not do to have a distraction like that making it seem that he had time for niceties.

"I won't be any trouble!" Jehan insisted, walking off to make a nest of the as-yet un-hung tapestries. "If you have to leave early, don't call on me! I am a university man, you know, and I need my sleep!"

"I know," Phoebus rolled his eyes as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, "I know."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13:

Inhabitants of the Court of Miracles each followed a different pattern, waking whenever they wished and setting out to walk the streets at their own particular hours.

This did not make it any easier for Esmeralda as she suffered the pangs of her hunger. She wished to run to the _Ile de Cite_ but unfortunately she was well aware that everyone knew what she looked like, and thus a single performance could turn deadly.

When she first woke, she nearly tripped over Gringoire, and the sight of him brought the shadows of the previous night rushing back.

She had spent so much time trying to befriend Quasimodo, and her success had only moved her to house arrest. How was she supposed to earn food this way?

Djali bleated plaintively at her.

"I know, he took your spot… come on, let's see who else is still around, we'll have to ask someone to share…" she hung her head as she led Djali out of the tent and nearly collided with Clopin because of it.

"So, you've woken," he said, eyeing her with obvious disapproval. "And the sod you took into your tent? That husband-thing?"

"Sleeping. He probably hasn't had a good sleep in a long while."

Clopin rolled his eyes. "How nice for him that he finally gets to sleep. Do you know who can't right now, Essie? Hm?"

She took a deep breath. "I understand, Clopin, and I'm sorry… I couldn't let Quasi—"

One long gloved finger was quickly extended into Esmeralda's face, and Clopin's nose slowly moved forward to join it. "Have I not taught you to look out for this family first? Why did you stick your neck out for Frollo's pet? It was a stupid little punishment, and you had to know it would be over soon. Frollo does not waste _anything_. He would not waste his pet, he just wanted his men to knock him around for a little while. That's why we got out of there so quickly, and it's why you should have gone with us! Once Frollo starts ruining perfectly good festivals, it's time to leave before he starts to arrest people!"

Finally Esmeralda allowed herself to scowl at him. "When we don't care about anyone but ourselves, how can we expect anyone else to care for us? It's time that everyone Frollo abuses stood up together! We can be so much stronger than him if we just start to—"

Clopin was shaking his head, and he'd already turned away.

Other faces were gaping at her as if she'd said something either stupid or brilliant, but either way her cheeks were burning.

"Just listen to me!" Esmeralda pleaded.

"You will get us all killed, La Esmeralda!" a woman from nearby cried from where she was loading her children into a caravan. "You've given Frollo an excuse to lead another purge against us, all because you were so stupid!"

Esmeralda's hands turned to fists for an instant, but the tension was swiftly over. Of course, this woman would shout at her, of course. What else could she do?

Esmeralda had taken actions which jeopardized the rest of her people, and she hadn't paused to ask any of them if they wanted to be implicated in her rebellion.

What would the more far-reaching consequences be for those she had dragged into her crusade? She had certainly never expected to be a heroine, but it seemed to her that what she had become was an enemy.

Clopin's firm hand was on her shoulder, and she was forced to look at him. His features did not appear so harsh as before, the tiredness had replaced them. "I have told you that you're my favorite, haven't I?" he asked in a hushed voice.

Slowly, fearing one of the others might overhear and jealousy might spark up from their hearts, Esmeralda nodded.

"We will protect you," Clopin said gently. "There are those of us who are leaving the city before it gets too rough, but there are others who are glad to have you back with us, and we will fight for you if it comes to that." Then he was hugging her, and Esmeralda sighed happily to know that she had not lost her dearest friend's love.

"I can't ask you to do a thing like that," she whispered to him, and only then did her tears break through. "I am the one who did this, so—"

"So we will just have to fall in line. This will be pinned on us all, anyway, and if Frollo realizes you are free, he will seek to force us all to confess that we know where you are."

Esmeralda gasped in horror, but Clopin held her steady rather than allow her to jerk away.

"You will see, it gets worse from here, but it cannot be helped. We are a people that's used to being constantly attacked, we will get through it as we always do."

The ominous feelings still troubled Esmeralda's already aching stomach, and she clung to Clopin in her growing terror.

"Is there some way I can help?" Pierre Gringoire asked from behind them, and both Esmeralda and Clopin turned to frown at him.

"What _can_ you do, honestly?" Clopin asked.

"I thought… maybe someone could teach me something…" Gringoire replied sheepishly.

"Is that even possible?" Clopin asked, raising a brow at him.

"Hush, Clopin, be nice… I think today I'll put on a disguise and try to beg some coin. Pierre can come along with me, and I'll see if I can make use of him," Esmeralda said, giving both men a glance which asked them to behave.

"Oh? And shall Djali also don a disguise?" Clopin asked. "Or did you think every girl on the street had a little white goat?"

"I know!" Gringoire cried. "I can watch little Djali!"

"I'll not leave her with _you_ ," Esmeralda frowned deeply. "She's my friend, I won't part with her!"

Djali stood protectively beside Esmeralda, as if she had gotten an inkling of what the discussion amounted to.

"I know you are intent on going…" Clopin sighed, gazing steadily at her as if he expected he would never see her again. "I just can't let you go lightly… not when Frollo is so alert…"

"It's a large city," Esmeralda reminded him. "It's possible there are people who won't even know me by sight, and if Gringoire is with me, calling me his wife, they could even think I'm someone different, entirely. Djali could be an ordinary dairy goat."

"With the earring?" Clopin questioned.

Esmeralda cringed. "Well, I guess not." She bent down and gently removed the golden ring from Djali's ear, then hooked it into her own. "Is that better?" she asked when she straightened. "And I'll wear a head scarf, and a longer skirt. Is that a deal? I need to eat, and I can't ask you or anyone else to go finding me food."

Clopin stared tight-lipped at her, but finally relented. "There is a lot of work to do planning everyone who wants to leave getting to safety. You had better come home tonight or I'm going to come hunting for you, and I'm bringing the long knives. Understood?"

Esmeralda nodded readily, already thinking of whether or not she may surreptitiously catch a glance of Phoebus. It would be wonderful, as long as he didn't also see her. He may be compelled to turn her in… best not to think of that.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

Even when his guest was sleeping in the downstairs portion of the town home, Phoebus discovered that sleeping was nigh impossible. His depleted energy reserves were not as helpful as he expected when it came to aiding his slumber, while instead he lay paralyzed and cringing as true sleep eluded him.

He was aware with the approach of dawn that Jehan had finally stopped snoring, and greedily accepted the last few moments of rest available to him.

Somewhere in the mist of sleep, behind the wafting smiles of Esmeralda in their ethereal swirl, Phoebus could hear someone knocking at his door.

It was the businesslike rapping cadence of a military hand, and he knew duty demanded his attention.

His discipline would not allow him to rest further than that, though his body ached for rest.

While he gave himself over to the stiffness and the infirmity of his flesh, he heard someone outside begin an argument with another man, but their voices were too muffled to surmise more than their tone.

There were noises from below, as well, these more easily attributed to the feet of Jehan. If Phoebus had been downstairs with him, he might have begged him not to intervene, and yet there was the croaking of his door belching open, and Phoebus, still paralyzed, listened as Jehan greeted the two men at the door.

"Captain Phoebus de Chateaupers has been summoned by Dom Claude Frollo to the Palace of Justice!" a soldier announced with the sharpness of barely controlled irritation.

"Yes, but he has also been summoned by my mistress, Madamoiselle Gondelaurier!" a civilian servant's voice, no doubt of it, and Phoebus could even recognize the voice from household chatter, so this was no fraud… What cause could there be for fraud?

Reluctant and cranky from his lack of rest, Phoebus slowly shambled down the stairs, peering down at the fellows who all stood in his front room. "Good morning, sirs," he grunted.

They both peered at him.

"Captain Phoebus, are you ill?" the soldier asked, as he was the first to decide he had a right to speak, though he stood at attention as he did so.

Despite how sorely Phoebus wanted to reply that indeed he was ill and should not be bothered for the rest of the day, Phoebus knew that might make him look suspicious. "Not ill… suffering the effects of too much work yesterday, but I am capable of serving the needs of my station." He spoke automatically with the language taught him at war.

War, now that would wake him!

Let him feel the same wave of vigor which could keep him fighting all day despite the ravages of war's demands.

"But would you so surely neglect the request of your lady love?" the servant asked. "By my honor as a Frenchman! Surely a lady's request holds greater sway over any man than the call of his employer!"

"But I am more afraid of Frollo than Fleur," Phoebus responded, with perhaps too much candor. "What I meant to say is, my sense of duty is more actively required by the judge."

"I could go," Jehan said, and Phoebus was surprised by the generous, friendly tone he heard.

"I couldn't ask you to visit Frollo on my behalf," Phoebus said, reluctantly. "Not this time, anyway. I have to appear before him and see what his orders are."

"Oh, I wasn't suggesting I should go see my brother! Why would I want to do such a thing? I've already got a place to stay! I thought I'd go and see your Fleur. She sounds lovely."

Phoebus felt his lips twitch, but managed to restrain his snort. "Yes, she is lovely," he admitted, and was about to discourage Jehan from going to visit her, but then he recognized that Jehan was a man of pretty words when he wanted to be, and at least if he went, he was less likely to be hectored by Fleur than Phoebus himself would be. He may make a better time of it, if he were to go. "Send the lady my deepest regrets," he said.

Fleur's servant twitched, as if he were imagining the punishment that he would receive at Fleur's hands, but Jehan was ecstatic. It made sense, after all, he'd only been around bar wenches and lady knaves for so long, according to Phoebus's estimation, that he was drooling at the thought of a woman who didn't smell of the sewer. Which was nothing against women who smelled like sewers, he corrected as the image of La Esmeralda danced before his inner eyes.

With agitated haste, the soldier led Phoebus to the Palace of Justice. The short distance between Phoebus's little house and the Palace gave Phoebus ample time to fret over what lay before him.

Rather than the dungeon in which he had first encountered Frollo, Phoebus was taken to an out-of-the-way door through which was a choked, dark room.

At first, when he was abandoned there, Phoebus had to squint to see anything but piles of books, but as he adjusted to the dimness, he saw more still. He wished he hadn't seen Frollo bent over his desk, with a fevered look in his eyes, but there he was.

The brooding frenzy he saw Frollo in disturbed him, looking like a demon who'd been painted in the margins of some illuminated text.

"Sir?" he asked, hesitantly, with his arms firmly folded behind his back.

"Good, Captain, you're here, close the door behind you!"

That was quite literally the last thing Phoebus wished to do, but he had received a direct order, and he had not been trained to be insubordinate. Slowly, carefully, as if a dagger might come plunging into his flesh from the shadows, he obeyed.

"I hear that the gypsy girl is still cowering in the shadows of Notre Dame," Frollo said without looking up from the papers. There was something else on the desk, Phoebus realized, several bottles which he could see Frollo weighing on a scale.

Was this… alchemy?

A shiver ran down Phoebus's spine which he was glad did not make his armor clank. There may be something to learn from the study of alchemy, but it had always made Phoebus uneasy.

"Do not give me that look," Frollo scolded, "you look like an ignorant peasant!"

"Forgive me, sir, I would like to ask what you require of me." In an effort to find anything but Frollo to look at, Phoebus's eyes fell on one of the walls.

That was when he first saw the words, " _LA ESMERALDA"_ scrawled upon the wall in chalk, multiple times over and in all capital letters. His mind began to spin through the throes of attempting to understand what he was looking at. Was this written because he wished to capture her, or… something else?

"Never you mind that!" Frollo growled, springing up from his seat and giving Phoebus the most shining-eyed glare he'd ever received from a human being off the battlefield. "You're here to tell me what you saw in the church last night… Did you see her?"

Phoebus paused, seeing the judge's eyes and knowing instantly that he had not slept the whole night. You'd think with a nice place to sleep and no churches to climb while wearing armor someone would be able to sleep, but apparently something else was eating at Frollo.

" _Well_?" Frollo demanded, taking a step closer.

"Sorry, sir, I was… are you unwell?"

"What does that matter?" Frollo snarled, his hair falling out of place so stringy gray strands fell into his eyes. Phoebus could not remember a single hair of Claude Frollo's hair ever being out of place… something was pulling his hinges out of alignment one by one.

He was tempted to look back at the wall, but he couldn't risk it.

"I saw her," he said slowly, putting extra effort into keeping his tone even and looking into Frollo's beady, bloodshot eyes to avoid looking like the liar that he was. "She looked frightened. So she ran, and so I didn't see her once she made it to her cell."

Those words came to him much more easily than anticipated. What did that say about him?

"You let her outrun you?" Frollo asked.

"I didn't so much _let_ her… I had climbed into the church in armor, so I was weaker than usual."

"Well," Frollo straightened, smoothing his hair back into place, "I admire your dedication to justice. Of course, I shall have to send my spies into the church and have them find the gypsy's weakness."

"I think I should be the one to do that," Phoebus said hurriedly.

Frollo glanced at him sharply. "You haven't been letting that witch charm you, have you?"

"No, no, but… she recognizes me by now… And I think if given enough time, I could lure her out of the church—"

"And into the waiting hands of the law!" Frollo hopped up from his chair again, his shoulders curled forward as if he were about to lunge on some innocent and suck the life from their neck. "This is why _I like you_ so much, _Captain_! If your plan works, you shall see your fortunes multiplied! Now go! I must return to my studies…" he turned from his captain and back to his desk, which suited Phoebus just perfectly.

Without another word, Phoebus hurried away, swiftly closing the door behind himself so that he could shudder in peace.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15:

More than most things she had done in her life, Esmeralda was aware that what she was doing was both stupid and wrong. It would be better, or at least more intelligent, to cower below the city in her underground sanctuary… however long doing so could make her starve.

Above the abiding sense of paranoia was a singing thrill which she knew she ought to keep under control.

She dodged the cathedral and set up with Gringoire just outside the _Ile de Cite_. "I think if you are so used to telling stories badly—" she began, only to see his face fall a thousand miles into the depths of misery, "—or at least your stories are often misunderstood by those you tell them to, you can try to make them amusing."

Gringoire took some time to recover his ego, but finally he gave her a somewhat hopeful glance. "What would you do if you wanted to tell a funny story?" he asked shyly.

"Exaggerate, make a funny voice, and above all laugh at yourself. Sometimes all the audience needs is to know you're having fun, and it makes them giddy along with you. That's what Clopin does with his puppets, but I think we'll have to use our own selves."

"In what capacity?"

Esmeralda paused, both because he'd used a word she wasn't entirely certain she'd grasped the meaning of, and partially because she had an idea and had to think of how to explain it.

"What Clopin does with puppets, we have to do ourselves. Have you ever seen a puppet show?" She took Djali by the front legs and danced with her in a little circle. It was not the graceful and sensual manner she ordinarily adopted, but a loping and half clumsy childish dance.

"You see," she drawled out in a mimicry of the high-flung accent Gringoire used whenever he tried to sound impressive, "when I look silly, and I sound silly, someone might—"

There was no need for her to say the word "laugh" aloud, as a child nearby had begun to giggle.

Pierre gazed from Esmeralda and Djali to their audience in wonder, and Esmeralda briefly wondered if he'd never had an audience react the way he meant them to in his life. How sad for a performer!

"Let me join in!" he exclaimed, and began to prance along with her, with a tremendously quick grasp of the tempo which impressed her at last.

A second child developed an interest in their dancing, and before her mother could disengage them both from watching the dancing, Esmeralda told Gringoire, "Quickly! A story!"

Pierre wavered for a moment, babbling out something half comprehensible as Esmeralda augmented it with the occasional "Ooh," and a smattering of "Aah's."

Steadily more children and their bewildered mothers were drawn to the ridiculous trio, and Esmeralda placed the money hat on the ground just far enough away that the Parisians could access it without having to get too close.

A glimpse of shining armor caught her eye in the midst of changing up the routine such that she and Gringoire were juggling Djali between them.

It was a difficult sport while Djali went bleating through the air, as one had to avoid both her sharp little hooves and her horns, but Esmeralda still noticed that this armor was golden like the sun.

Djali went careening into her and knocked her backward off her feet, which caused her to sprawl on the cobblestones to the amusement of the children.

Stunned as Djali licked apologetically at her face and rubbed the crown of her head against her cheek, Esmeralda stared up at the sky.

This was her chance to see Phoebus again!

He wouldn't even have to see her!

Slowly, Esmeralda sat up, hearing the constant clatter of coin into the hat, and took stock of it. There was just enough to afford some bread… She snatched up half of it. "Keep up the good work, I'm off," she said.

"But Clopin said—"

"Hush, listen to me. I'm going on an errand, you are to hone your skills, understand?"

"Yes, mademoiselle," he said fervently. "But can I keep Djali?" Gringoire—or rather perhaps she ought to call him Pierre—was now begging. "She is quite necessary to the proper execution of the performance!"

Esmeralda was so enchanted by the idea that she may come across Phoebus and speak alone with him she almost forgot to reply. "Yes, take good care of her, and remember to get her food."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16:

Returning to the same bar at which he had met with Jehan the night before was the door Phoebus opened to the welcome distraction he sought from images of Frollo the demonic goblin which pranced menacingly through his mind. Predictably enough, Jehan was there, bragging to several raggedy fellows that he was recently in the company of a woman possessed of a tremendous fortune, and she was much impressed with him.

Phoebus kept quiet, unwilling to speak as of yet, and only listened.

"She was so angry because her betrothed wasn't there to see her, but that was before I paid her compliments!" Jehan bragged, leaning against the bar. "It was some drivel about how pretty her hands are, and she got so red in the face she looked like she'd been drinking all night at one of _these fine establishments!"_

His sloshed companions joined in laughing, as Phoebus smirked at how lightly they were all taking an incident Fleur might relate to him in quite different terms. It would all revolve around how his friend had fallen to the ground to worship her beauty, and how he really should send the fellow around again when her friends were about so they could have a good laugh.

In the meantime, Phoebus ordered the best wine the house had, but the moment he smelled it he knew there was something amiss.

"Every time, it's that 1470 Burgundy…" he muttered. It was the unmistakable scent of the vineyard that had been spoiled by grapes which produced something much closer to vinegar than wine, but he had still paid his money for it, and the dreadful vintage may better suit his need to drown his ill-shapen memories.

"Ah, here's the good captain now!" Jehan clapped Phoebus on the back just as he had won the courage to down his first swig of the sour Burgundian wine, and very nearly made him cough his soul straight to the heavens. " _Merci, mon Capitan_! If not for you I would not have passed the day so agreeably! The lady was most accommodating, and I have never eaten so many trifles in my days!"

Phoebus rolled his eyes. "I suppose you had to spew various trifles before you were rewarded with more, or have I misjudged the lady?"

"Only a few," Jehan acknowledged with a smirk. "The primary trifle was that I told my dear lady Fleur all about how rich I am."

Phoebus bent over the bar as he laughed, his willingness to come loose from the moorings of propriety a direct consequence of his tiredness, and not the sour wine. "You? Rich?" he asked amid gasps and notes of his laughter. "Yes, sure, maybe if Claude died, you would be!"

"Did you not _see_ him today? Don't you think that can happen soon enough?" Jehan asked.

Phoebus automatically crossed himself, before realizing that he wouldn't actually mind if Frollo _were_ to die. It may make it easier to meet with Esmeralda and someone could instantly forget why soldiers' time was being wasted on patrolling the church for an innocent woman.

On the other hand, "You'd be a terrible man of fortune," he pointed out to Jehan.

"You would be right, but I know I wouldn't be rich long enough to be bad at it!" Jehan laughed, and stole a deep swig of Phoebus's wine. He frowned once it had gone down. "Ugh… you ordered 1470 on _purpose_ , didn't you?"

"Call it a happy accident," Phoebus snickered.

It was then he caught sight of a curious set of emerald eyes gazing at him across the room. They looked so familiar…

He took another drink of the terrible wine and steeled himself.

There was nothing to say he wouldn't go the way of doddering old Claude and lose his mind, and the first thing his crazed mind would do would be to display images of Esmeralda to him when she was not there.

"What's the matter with you?" Jehan demanded of him, waving a hand before his eyes. "I want you to know how I represented you to your fiancée!"

Phoebus raised a brow at him. "Badly, I hope," he said only artificially in jest.

Those same eyes seemed closer than they'd been before, flashing with curiosity.

He drank again, and heard Jehan order more on his behalf. Of course, he would, so long as it was money spent from Phoebus's purse, and not his own.

Still the eyes were there. Actually, come to think of it, they could be there as a consequence of too much drink, at this point, and not too little.

She came still closer, and Phoebus noted that she was wearing something different from the last time he'd seen her, and did not have a goat with her, so it _could_ be Esmeralda, but what did she do with the goat? Was it wrong to assume?

He at least shouldn't acknowledge that he knew her if it _were_ Esmeralda, and if it wasn't her, she wouldn't want the added scrutiny.

At last she was at the bar, and he was almost sure he recognized her. He would know for sure if he wasn't beginning to question his sanity and sobriety, but as it stood, he was uncertain of both.

She counted out coins meticulously, and placed them before the bartender quietly, then asked for food and wine. The voice sounded like Esmeralda's as well, but for all he knew, she was back in the cathedral, and he was completely fabricating the presence of any Egyptian woman besides him, at all…

The fact that the bartender placed actual onion broth with floating lumps of something that looked vaguely like vegetables before the woman, and he could smell it, made Phoebus sigh with relief. It was an _actual_ woman, thanks be to God!

He smiled at her, and muttered a greeting, hoping not to draw too much attention either to her, or to the fact he was being friendly with her.

She glanced up at him with a smirk, and winked. "What is someone whose armor is so shiny doing in a place like this?" she asked.

He wondered how to best respond, but glanced over at Jehan, who was regaling newcomers with his experiences with Fleur. They were slightly more licentious this time, probably a consequence of his having more to drink, and the way he was lauded as a hero for having done it.

Come to think of it, with Jehan distracted, and most of the men in the inn more concerned with the younger Frollo than with the possible Esmeralda, he could take liberties with actually talking to her.

"What may I call you?" he asked, leaving it open by doing so for her to reveal her name or not as she judged suitable.

"You can call me a friend," she replied, and gave him a smirk. "Unless you've changed your mind about arresting me."

That was as close as he could get to her actually admitting her identity, so perhaps he was neither overly drunk or overly mad.

A grin broke out on his lips. "With what I know of you, there could hardly be a point, now could there? You are such a fine clever girl, I am sure you would outwit me!"

When he saw her answering grin, Phoebus was close to forgetting anything could be wrong between them. She seemed so at ease with him, they may well have been friends, or… perhaps something better.

"Did our… mutual friend… tell you what I meant to convey to you?"

She tilted her head. "I didn't think we shared any friends," she whispered back to him.

"He works in… er… church music," Phoebus muttered.

"Oh, him! Are you really friends now? That is—" she cut herself off as she was about to get too loud, and had to cut back. "What did you say? I think you must have seen him more recently than me."

"I wanted him to let you know… I didn't mean for the church to become your prison… I hoped that it would get Frollo off your trail… but I'm glad to see it saved your life…" he placed a hand on hers instinctively, and though the hold was gentle, he clung to it.

Their skin did not meet, as though her hand was bare, his hand was swathed in leather. Still, he could feel the warmth through the gauntlet, and it quieted the turbulent paranoia in his head.

She was alive, and he had not doomed her… _yet_ , anyway.

"How did you get into the cathedral?" she whispered.

"I'm more interested in how _you_ got out," he replied, sparing a glance over his shoulder at Jehan, grateful when he did that nobody had come over to weasel in on their conversation, and they were in no danger of immediate interruption.

Even so, he opted for words that were less likely to incriminate either one of them. "I had the fullest intention of getting to you, myself, but it seemed we were meant to cross paths under different circumstances."

"Destiny walks the unknown road, I believe," Esmeralda whispered softly. "I was helped by our friend, he showed me the way, and now I won't go back unless I have to."

"Which I would not advise just yet," Phoebus said softly. "For now, people expect you to be in the church still, so don't let them change their minds."

"What miracle makes them think that?"

"Well, if a miracle is an act of God, then it wasn't one. I helped."

"Call it an act of the sun god, then?"

"If you want…" he chuckled, and watched her eat the food that was brought to her.

Had she gotten anything to eat while she was in the church? Where was she staying? Was it safe?

"I have to ask, and I'm sorry if I'm intruding, but I need to know where you're living."

Esmeralda raised a brow at him. "I don't think that's the sort of thing you ask a lady."

"Come now, _mademoiselle_ , these are trying times. Have you heard about the printing press? _Mon dieu_ , I think they're going to destroy architecture with it!"

Esmeralda smirked at him, then drank some of her broth. "I have heard something about that, too."

"My, what educated friends we both have!"

"Oh, la, we are so fortunate! But, do you really think we can remain friends much longer? I worry that something might…"

He placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "Nothing will make me forget what you did for that poor bell ringer, when my hand was stayed by duty. You are the sort of person who matters more than a thousand stuck up, ignorant nobles. I will _never_ forget that. You can rely on that."

Her smile was warm when it reached her eyes, and she leaned close to him. He could smell the homey broth on her breath, and the unique, new and thrilling smell that was Esmeralda, as well.

If he leaned closer, he could kiss her…

But she was gone, pulled away and vanished before he could cross that middle distance.

He cast a bewildered glance around the inn, and found her waving at him from the door.

Mechanically, he raised a hand, and knew that when she was ready, he would see her again.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17:

A second day dawned on vast improvements to Pierre's routine. Pierre's show revolved mainly around balancing a chair in his teeth, in spite of all Esmeralda's advice to the contrary, but it was clear that he had finally found his calling.

Esmeralda was even confident enough to leave him to himself so that once again, she could seek Phoebus.

She had basked in the sunlight while the moon rose above, and now she sought a more private venue for their next meeting. It wasn't entirely safe, but that knowledge only made her all the more gleeful in the pursuit of her new hobby.

Alone in the streets, Pierre Gringoire was more exhilarated than he'd been when he finally finished reading the _Odyssey_. This was an Odyssey of his own, as he found himself much better at making people laugh than he'd ever been at moving their souls toward some idea of grand importance.

I was liberating to finally receive the applause he'd sought for so long, and it seemed that his audience genuinely _liked_ him! What a joy!

A thunderous noise filled the square as he was playing a game of balancing as many children on his shoulders as he could while still balancing the chair on his teeth, but he would have ignored it save for the shout which emanated from nearby.

"Vagabond! Get out of the road!"

Pierre and the children he'd been entertaining scrambled to follow the orders of whoever this refined personage must be, at which point he found a large black stallion staring down at him, with an armored black carriage behind him.

A thin, pale face poked out of the carriage's window, and a set of dark, gleaming eyes stared at him in an unsettlingly reptilian manner. "Is that you, Pierre Gringoire?" The unmistakable voice of Claude Frollo emerged from that pale, wrinkled face, and Pierre mustered a smile in reply.

"I am he, indeed!" he called back. "Good day to you, your honor!"

"What are you _doing_ here? At first I thought you were a common gypsy!"

"Ah! Funny that you would say that! I've only just married one!"

Those words brought a darker sheen to Frollo's eyes. "What would induce you to do a thing like that?"

"Oh! I've been waiting for someone to tell that story to! I had to marry her! She saved my life with that matrimony! Never have I owed more to anyone than I owe to her!"

"Ugh," Frollo scoffed, "get in the carriage, I can't bear to speak of nonsense in the streets! And who dressed you in that motley?"

"My new king!" Pierre announced readily. "They call him a king, you know, but I think it's a joke! Isn't that jolly?"

Frollo looked at him from across the carriage with a sneer that indicated he could smell Pierre and disapproved of the bouquet. " _Vile_."

"Where are we going?" Pierre asked, excitedly peering out the window.

"We're going to the Palace of Justice. I am a generous man, and I can extend charity on occasion, can I not?"

"Oh, most certainly, sir!" Pierre supplied excitedly, and his stomach gave a growl. "Can we do something about that?"

"Certainly," Frollo said, brushing the velvet of his robes as if to somehow remove the pollution of Gringoire's presence. "You are to take your midday meal with me, and we shall discuss your new life circumstances together."

Pierre grinned, anticipating that the man who had so generously aided him in funding his education would now lift him out of his dead-end circumstances. If only he'd been able to bring his equally poor wife along with him! She deserved a meal just as much as he did!

"Is something _troubling_ you?" Frollo asked evenly as they trundled along the cobblestones.

"Oh, no, I just wish my wife could be here to get food, as well."

"And why are you not with your wife?" Frollo asked, the measured tone of his voice almost completely hiding his irritation.

"She thought we could make more money if we performed in different streets," he explained.

"No doubt she is already out somewhere being unfaithful to you," Frollo drawled.

"Oh, probably," Pierre shrugged.

Frollo nearly flew out of his seat when the carriage hit a particularly tall stone, but Pierre thought it was more an emotional reaction than owing to the movement, since it didn't bother him so much.

"Why are you so careless about your wife committing adultery?" Frollo growled.

"It's not as if either of us are in love with one another, she's free to do as she likes. Furthermore, I think she's quite in love with someone else."

"Then why in God's name did she marry _you?_ "

"Pity, I'm afraid," Pierre sighed. "I'm really dreadfully sorry to have imposed."

Frollo stared at Pierre as a shadow fell over them, and Pierre checked out the window to be sure it was actually the Palace of Justice they were seeing.

Out before the palace, Frollo disembarked from his carriage with his hat's long velvet ribbon of scarlet trailing out behind him.

Pierre hobbled after him, having taken his lessons in clowning a little too seriously. He finally straightened, however, and gazed up at the palace. "I've never seen it this close!" he cried.

"Follow me," Frollo grumbled over his shoulder, adopting a stately walk which put Pierre's to shame until he schooled himself into mimicking Frollo's gait.

They were silent as Frollo led him through darkened halls, guarded by stern guardsmen, but Frollo stopped at a particular door and a sickly smile spread over his thin lips.

Pierre was too afraid to ask what had amused Frollo so greatly, so he peeked through the window in the upper portion of the door instead.

A swarthy-skinned woman was stretched out and shivering on a bed that looked more like a table, and wearing a thin white shift. It was difficult to look at her without envisioning Esmeralda in her place, except that this woman looked a little older.

"What did she do?" Pierre asked in a hushed voice, in the hope that he may find something to explain what he was seeing.

A guard was approaching the woman with a harness for her face, a mask attached to which were manacles.

"She was found soliciting male attention in the alleys near Notre Dame de Paris," Frollo said, arranging his hat so that the points of the triangle were firmly aligned in perfect symmetry, though really they already had been. "She is to be made an example of."

Pierre watched the woman as she was strapped into the mask, and noted the way she flinched and whimpered. "Are you sure she can walk?"

"Well, no matter. If she cannot walk, then she shall be carried in the same wagon we use to transport the condemned."

Pierre knit his brow, and was about to ask another question before he realized the answer was right in front of him.

The woman could not walk because it appeared that the bottom half of her leg had been shattered, the blood was still seeping out from it.

"Wait! She needs a bandage first!" Pierre cried, drawing the eyes of both the torturer and the woman.

Frollo's hand gripped Pierre's elbow and yanked him away from the window. "Stop interfering!" he growled, and dragged the stunned Pierre further down the hall. "You are not a man of justice, you don't understand!"

No, Pierre well and truly _did not_ understand!

His mind was ablaze with questions, mainly revolving around whether or not he was currently endangering Esmeralda. Not that she'd done anything wrong, but if Frollo _thought_ she had… And what about _him_? Was he to be incriminated by Frollo's version of justice?

Ah, no, that was a ridiculous notion.

He was led to a room where the walls were scrawled over with repeated chalk markings of, " _La Esmeralda_!"

It was enough to make him hesitate at the door, but Pierre was dragged through nonetheless, and the door was slammed behind him.

"Here," Frollo gestured to the desk he'd covered in small glass bottles which were filled with substances Pierre could not name.

"Is it safe to eat off of this?" he asked.

"I imagine it is more serviceable than what you've had of late," Frollo replied. "Now!" he rang a little hand bell, and a servant rushed in carrying a plate of baguettes, cheese and grapes. "You ought to tell me all about your wife, Gringoire… Where are you staying?"

Combining grapes and cheese in his mouth at once was so sublime, Pierre nearly forgot he was the one being spoken to. "Oh!" he swallowed more quickly than he would have liked. "In a tent!"

This was clearly not what Frollo had expected to hear, as he frowned. "But where do you pitch this tent?" he asked, slicing through his bread to take only a tiny sliver of it, cover it in cheese, then nibble at it.

"Oh, with the others," Pierre grinned as if he could not imagine what Frollo was actually asking.

He was not _quite_ that stupid.

Frollo had been obsessed with the Court of Miracles for years, and Pierre had something of an idea what Frollo would do if he ever managed to find it. Something worse than what he'd done to the poor Egyptian woman they'd passed on the way here, no doubt.

"What others?" Frollo pressed.

Pierre took his time chewing, and hoped that Frollo would not see him casually stowing away bits of food I his sleeves. "Well… there's one that I think has a whole family in it, and that one's green… The yellow and red one is a bit further away but I think those two are _really_ happy together!" he waggled his brows and watched Frollo's lip curl in disgust.

With any luck, that would have ended the questions, but sadly it did not.

"How can you live like that?" Frollo asked.

"Well, it's better than the street."

"So it's not on a street… is it outside the city?"

Pierre blinked. Frollo was probably scouring the city before he came across Pierre, there was little alternative to that conclusion. So he was looking for directions…

"Yes," Pierre said with clear conscience, "we never set up camp within the city itself."

Frollo's eyes were on him, gray brows lowered darkly over shadowed pupils. "Is that so? Never once?"

"Well, maybe they used to before I got married, but I've never camped in the streets."

Frollo was still displeased, but Pierre had gotten a decent meal, so he was ready to go. "What is your wife's name?" Frollo asked.

Pierre was fortunate his mouth was full when he was asked, so he just smiled before replying, "Sapphira."

It was close enough, anyway. Another gemstone name with a vaguely exotic tint, that would suffice, no?

"And have you consummated with this girl?"

"Oh, no, she's one of the most cosmically pure virgins I've ever known, and without any holy vows! Besides, she is enamored of this soldier, who probably doesn't even know she's alive!"

Frollo's brows shot up, but Pierre knew there was no drawing out this mythical Sapphira from such knowledge, so he remained as unaffected as if he were truly ignorant. "Do you know this soldier's name?" Frollo asked.

"I think it was something mythological," Pierre shrugged. "Thank you for the meal, Dom Claude, it's been too long since we've had the chance to speak!"

Frollo may have been about to insist that he answer another question, but instead he straightened. "Yes, go, I'm sure the vagabond life calls to you. I shall say a prayer for your soul at evening mass."

Pierre had never been gladder to depart from a man's presence. He joyfully skipped out of the Palace of Justice, only to be stopped by yet another thunder of hooves.

There was the poor woman, staring at him as she was rolled along with the cart down the road.

She was gone too quickly for Pierre to do any more than recognize her, and he was left only with the impression that he had should have done something.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18:

Esmeralda considered it a great relief that she could ditch Pierre with such ease. It was almost as if she were still single!

What was even easier was finding Phoebus, as he had followed him home the night before, and therefore knew where to go searching for him early in the morning.

He had been called away by a messenger, and while another man, who looked like a steward of some kind, had at first seemed to be the only one who would go along with the messenger, Phoebus himself did emerge from the house.

Esmeralda sat crouched against a wall with Djali on her shoulders, smoking as if she were an old beggar. As he passed, Phoebus paused, and gave her a few glittering coins, before walking off with the messenger and steward.

Did he really not recognize her, or was he only forcing himself to pretend he didn't know it was her so that she wouldn't be caught.

Either way, she followed him and his companions at a distance, and found that they stopped only at a fine town home.

She first went to buy herself and Djali something to eat, then added to it another scarf to replace the one she had wasted on Frollo.

This one was green, which hurt her sense of thematic continuity, but at least it would be less of a simple task to associate her with her appearance at the Festival of Fools.

She was making her way back to the house at which Phoebus had been keeping his appointment when from above, she then heard a call, which stopped both she and Djali in their tracks.

"Hey! You down there, Egyptian! Could you come up here?"

There above them was Phoebus looking down from a balcony with an urgent gleam in his brilliant blue eyes.

"Right away!" she called back, and heard laughter from within the room.

Female laughter. The cruel kind.

Undeterred, Esmeralda shot through the door with Djali at her heels, and hurried into the upper room where Phoebus stood with his steward and several finely-clothed women.

"My, but you have a way with beggars!" the principal among the ladies tittered. "Is this the one that's been following you all day?"

Phoebus blushed quite visibly, and looked like a young boy who was being scolded by his mother. "Maybe," he said sheepishly.

"Well, then?" the woman, her severe, pale features aiming at Esmeralda as if she were poised to throw a knife her way. "Why were you tracking _my fiancé_?"

Esmeralda stared at her, processing with embarrassing slowness what she'd just learned.

Of course, Phoebus was engaged! He was a nobleman, weren't they all but wed at birth? And what business of _hers_ should that be, when she was newly wed, herself?

"He… is my friend," she offered weakly.

" _Really_?" the lily-pale woman stared from Esmeralda to Phoebus with incredulous scrutiny. "What sort of friend is she, Phoebus?"

"The sort one meets about one's business," Phoebus said, looking down at his shoes. "I had hoped that if I called her in, she would have a break from the sun, and a chance to rest," he squared his shoulders and offered Esmeralda a place to sit.

This was the daintiest chair Esmeralda had ever seen, with bowed wooden framework and scarlet velvet forming the seat, and she was charmed by the sight of it.

"I could really sit there?" she asked.

Phoebus was answering yes, but his voice was drowned out by a shriek from the lady.

"That is not your chair to offer!" she screamed.

An older lady, who was already sitting on one such chair, raised a hand and a soft word to halt the ravages of the girls he called, "Fleur de Lys," but it was impossible.

"If you're going to be here, it's to serve us and make our time here more pleasant!" Fleur de Lys shouted at Esmeralda. "You are the performing sort, are you not? Perform for us!"

Taken aback, Esmeralda stared for a moment, then glanced down at Djali. "Djali, do you remember what I taught you yesterday?" She untied the pouch of letters which she kept at her waist, then spilled them out before her goat.

Dutifully, Djali arranged the letters the way Esmeralda and Pierre had trained her to, until before the gasping nobles' eyes, the chaos of the letter tiles aligned into the simple word, "Phoebus."

The ladies who were with Fleur squealed, and scrambled to hide behind one another, whispering about witchcraft.

"No, Djali is just a very clever girl," Esmeralda said, stroking Djali's back.

"Very clever," Phoebus agreed, kneeling beside the letters and blocking Esmeralda from view with his broad shoulders. "Who taught her?" he asked in a soft voice.

Esmeralda could smell the same wine on his breath as the night before, and could feel the warmth radiate from him like the rays of the sun. "My new… friend… his name is Pierre. He knew the story of your name, and how to spell it."

"How kind of him…" he smirked and his eyes glittered. "You were thinking of me?"

Fleur de Lys cleared her throat. "Phoebus? What are you saying to that creature?"

"We're having a thing called a conversation, Fleur, and if it's too low for you to hear, then it's on purpose."

Fleur made an indescribably huffy noise and approached them with sharp, birdlike paces. "I have a right to know!"

Objectively she did, and Esmeralda knew she was stealing Phoebus's time.

"I called you up here to perform for us, so now, gypsy, you will dance!" Fleur demanded.

"I'm good at dancing," Esmeralda noted feebly. "But, is there anyone around to provide music?"

"I shall sing," Fleur said, and stood with her hands folded in a neat but unnatural way before her chest. "Pick up your goat's nasty toys and we shall begin," she said.

Part of Esmeralda was intrigued, as she had never danced to the sole accompaniment of a Frenchwoman singing whatever song she might know. And with such a fine lady choosing the music, what wonders could she sing for her?

She quickly gathered up the little letter tiles and stowed them at her waist, then produced the scrap of green cloth which she had so lately purchased for herself.

Once the song began, however, she found it uninspiring. She could not make a vivid show of her dance, not in such close quarters with only one man present. The ladies wouldn't care for her usual style, and the tempo was so flat she could hardly make a game of it at any rate.

As half heartedly as she was dancing, it was made complex and distasteful when Fleur de Lys began throwing money at her. Her song was done it seemed, as instead she was laughing, and calling, "That's more money than you've ever seen in your life, _isn't it_?"

As sorely as she wanted to deny it, that was truth, indeed. With solemn features, she bent and collected every golden coin which flew her way, every precious one. Each coin could mean another week a family could eat, or even more… heavens, but she could not even fathom the fortune at her feet!

"Get up! Stop making such a fool of yourself!" Fleur de Lys demanded. "Get out of here, harlot! Gypsy shrew! I don't ever want to see you around my future husband again!"

Tears burned just at the edges of her eyes, but Esmeralda refused to let them fall. She did not have to look at Djali to know her faithful companion would flee the room along with her when she turned from the room and ran without another glance over her shoulder.

Over Djali's hooves clopping on the wood behind her, Esmeralda could hear the muffled sounds of Phoebus speaking to the hysterically shouting Fleur.

She had been ushered out of the final door when she thought it would close behind her, but instead it remained open, and she heard Phoebus shouting at the servant to hold it for him.

Esmeralda turned just in time to face him when he grabbed her arms and crushed her to the plate mail he wore.

"I beg you to forgive me for that monstrous behavior," he muttered to her, holding her as if she would try to run away, as if she _could_. "Keep the money, though, it's excellent compensation."

"Phoebus!" Fleur called from the balcony above. "Get up her at once or I shall write to your mother!"

"Listen carefully," Phoebus whispered to Esmeralda. "We ought to meet again. I know you're better at finding me than I am at finding you, so the next time you see me alone… and I'll _try_ to find myself alone, too… then we'll talk. I look forward to it."

With that he was gone and the door was closed between them, and Esmeralda was left standing in the street with the contemptuous eyes of Fleur and her gaggle of friends glaring down on her from the balcony above.

Yet it didn't matter anymore, not really. Which one of them could claim that Phoebus actually _wanted_ to see them?


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19:

Returning to the Court of Miracles with her heart singing, Esmeralda's gladness was quickly snuffed out.

The Court was abuzz with families who had chosen to leave it. Their children were complaining of being separated from their playmates, and babies were crying just because they could.

Clopin was prancing from cart to cart giving abbreviated puppet shows to those little ones, helping them cope with the knowledge that the yet more dangerous road was ahead of them.

Esmeralda hurried to each of these families, saying, "I've made a lot of money, today, so here. This is my best hope to make up for forcing you out of Paris. My prayers go with you."

Most faces were grateful, and every hand took the coins she offered them. Her guilt could not thereby be entirely absolved, but she got some peace from it, nonetheless.

At the end of the line, as scouts ran ahead of the first caravan prepared to leave, Clopin turned to her. "You must have done a lot of work for that money… I'm proud of you for knowing who to give it to." He rubbed her back gently.

He hadn't done that in years, had he gotten that much older?

"Where is your husband?" he asked her.

Her heart twisted behind her ribs, and she grimaced. "I don't know. We split up this morning, but I'm going out again tonight, so he'll probably come back when I'm gone."

Clopin peered scrutinously at her. "Are you hiding something? Have you made some kind of appointment?"

"Nothing official, but I think I might find a friend out there… I could lighten the load on us all."

"Tell me what you're planning…" Clopin took a step closer and the bell on the end of his shoe jingled in the least merry way it had ever done.

"Nothing in particular, I swear," she replied, hurriedly backing away so his sharp nose wouldn't poke out one of her eyes. "Please, just relax! I'm going to have a little meeting with someone, and that someone may help take the pressure off of us. Just trust me, won't you?"

Clopin took a deep breath, and finally stood up straight. "Do what you want, but a storm is coming, and I have to take care of our people. See that you don't put us in more danger."

Esmeralda rested only for a little while before she struck out again. Beneath the surface, she could not track the sun, so there was no way of knowing for a certainty what the hour was.

When she emerged from the darkness, shrouded in her cloak, she found Pierre fumbling around looking for the entrance to the Court.

"Ah! Look what I've got!" he cried, holding up the hat Esmeralda used for money. It was so full that a couple coins fell out just with his moving the hat.

Esmeralda lurched forward and reclaimed them from the grass, then looked to Djali. "Take him home," she told her, "I'll be back soon."

"What? Where are you going?" Pierre asked as Esmeralda used her cape to further disguise herself.

"I may get to see the sun god even at night," she replied.

"Ah! Well! Good luck!" Pierre waved, and she clasped the hat.

"Don't let the money leave a trail behind you, just hold on to it, all right?"

Djali bleated at Pierre, who grew sheepish and followed the goat, calling a final farewell her way.

This suited her. Better that she should go alone.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20:

Phoebus had never been so incensed by Fleur's behavior. He did not remain long after he sent Esmeralda off on her way. Instead he stood before her and her gaggle of subordinates with a tight-lipped, barely contained smile.

"Consider this the end of our acquaintance," he told her. "I am not your betrothed, I am in fact free of your insipid behavior forevermore!" He turned on his heel and was only halted by her high-pitched wail as she threw herself at him.

"How could you leave me for _her_? She's not even French! Didn't you see how poor she is?"

"I'm not leaving you for her!" Phoebus exploded, and his eyes met with the poor old woman in the corner, shaking with the violence of all this shouting. Poor old woman… "I'm leaving you," Phoebus said a little more softly for the sake of the old woman's sensibilities, "because I find you _repulsive_."

She was still screeching at him when he left, but he did indeed leave. The sunlight embraced him when he was free of her house, and he didn't even care that she was still shouting after him when he left her house behind.

He would have to write to his parents, of course, they would require an explanation as quickly as it could possibly reach them, and he was sure Fleur was composing one of her own, as well.

It would be best to get the word out in the plainest terms so as to avoid disgrace at the slanderous hands of Fleur. She was a lady of high standing, and it would be sure to ruin him if got her way.

As he rushed home, he felt a creeping sense of dread crawl along his back. Something worse than Fleur's scorned ire was brewing, and he could all but hear it as some witch stirred something foul in her cauldron.

He tried to ignore it as he focused instead on writing out the missive for his parents, but there was a knock at the door just as he was signing his name.

As a precaution, he checked out the window so that he could be prepared for what was coming.

There was a cloaked figure there, not some obvious soldier. In the fading light, he could even see that the cloak was blue, and the person wearing it _had_ knocked, rather than picking the lock and creeping up on him

He paid this individual the courtesy of approaching the door and pulling it open without actually drawing his sword. Instead, his hand remained poised on the hilt.

The person he found on the opposites side of the door swept into the house before he'd said a word, and he was on high alert until she pulled back her cape's hood.

He shut the door swiftly to prevent anyone outside from seeing that he had Esmeralda with him in his front room. "I can't believe you made it here… Er… this is my home. Well, it's my temporary home, anyway. Would you like me to show you around?"

She smirked at him, and glanced at the room she stood in. "Are you sure you live here? It looks abandoned."

"I don't… really have much care for the place, I've only been here a few days. Anyway, I guess I'll stay for months, so at some point I'll make it look like a home… I've just had other priorities." He looked her over, absently seeking proof that she was unharmed, and then remembered. "Allow me to apologize again for the conduct of my former fiancée, I will not countenance it."

Esmeralda peered at him, and he waited as he realized he had probably used words she didn't know, but didn't want to embarrass her by elaborating. "Did I ruin your marriage?" she asked.

"No, no! You saved me from making a bad one!" he grinned, then bowed to her. "I am in your debt, my dear… would you like for me to take you somewhere so that I can properly thank you? I can't prepare food to save my life, and I feel as if that is the sort of thing one offers a woman who's done such great things… I don't think I can hope to top the jewelry you're already wearing, and any clothes I could buy you would only arrive after a few weeks."

Esmeralda began to grin. "I would love to go somewhere with you! Where would we go? An inn?"

"Oh, probably… but a nice one, this time." He watched her eyes widen and had to chuckle.

"But won't the people there see me?"

"Yes, but they'll see that you're with me."

She took a step closer to him with a sad smile. "But they will know that you actually like me. Then you could get in trouble, especially with Frollo… I wish we could just go as if there were no consequences, but I don't want to harm you."

He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and cupping her jaw in his hand. "Then I'll have to make up for it with whatever I've got lying around," he said, glad he had at least the charm to hold himself up and pretend he wasn't panicking inside.

He rarely felt so woefully inadequate. He had some scraps of cheese and bread lying about, and these he offered her.

"I have an idea," she said, "I have a little money, thanks to you, and if you and I both go and get food, we can bring it back here and share it."

Phoebus grinned at her. "What a lovely idea!" The creeping foreboding which had menaced him previously pounced on his heart, but he chose to proceed with what he thought was courage rather than give it mention. "I have a message for my family that I ought to send out, so if you arrive before I do, just hide nearby and wait for me to let you in."

He watched as light grew in her eyes, and an answering light grew in his heart.

"I'll go!" she cried. "It'll be an adventure!" She threw herself into his arms, and he found himself instinctively swinging her about.

Too soon, she was gone from his arms, and his house, and he was standing in the empty, all too desolate building with the letter in his hand that would declare his freedom from the harpy, Fleur.

First things first, he instructed himself, he would deliver the letter, and then he would declare himself a free man who could pursue his fancy for this young feisty creature full of life and beauty. Nothing could please him more!

As he was locking his door behind himself, he noticed a cloaked figure in the reflection on his moonlit window. He turned around, expecting it to be that of Esmeralda, but instead, the figure faded into indistinct shadows, where it could trouble only his mind as he went about his business.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21:

The morning's muster had been so uneventful, and so sparse on guardsmen, that Phoebus had mistaken these signs for evidence that Frollo had gone quiet. After all, business was proceeding as usual, and there were no major conflicts in the city.

Instead, he passed the cathedral to check on the guards there, and found a soldier on the steps calling for the Archdeacon to allow the soldiers in. "We must verify that the gypsy is in your custody!"  
he was shouting impotently.

Phoebus couldn't help but smirk before they saw him, and approached them carefully while wiping away his smugness. "Don't antagonize the churchmen," he said with gentle authority. "Remember, we do our duty in the face of God, so don't spit in it."

The soldiers turned bewildered faces his way.

"I know, Frollo is more than likely pushing you," he acknowledged, "but remember that he is a pious man, and he answers to God above all."

The soldiers stood at silent attention, glancing around as if Frollo could be anywhere, watching them and critiquing their every movement.

Phoebus gazed instead at the looming Palace of Justice across the way. He could almost see the crouched figure of Frollo poring over some dark and hideous volume of alchemical lore. If he was still of this world, he may not leave that dank study to chasten his men.

However, the soldiers did not need to know that they were reporting directly to a mad hobgoblin judge who was half past sanity on the road to ruin.

He couldn't risk them turning on him and reporting his notions to Frollo. War hero or not, he would not escape the consequences, and he so wanted to live.

An idea struck him and he grinned, holding up the letter. "Who wants to send out a message for me? I'll need two gentlemen, and I'll pay you extra. The church doesn't need so much guarding, she's only one girl, and you'll need two men per door."

They looked at one another, before at last two men stepped forward to take the letter to his parents.

Inwardly, Phoebus was just glad he'd rid the city of two men at Frollo's disposal. If something went pear-shaped, it would serve best to divert as many soldiers from within the city limits as possible.

Unless of course there was a riot. Then, it wouldn't help anyone.

He spared some time giving directions to the volunteer messengers, then patrolled the perimeter of the church, instructing the men not to harass anyone who simply wanted to pray. "We cannot afford to become the enemy of the peasantry. Recall what happens when the peasants revolt, there is bloodshed on both sides, and it always ends in tragedy. We as the guards and citizens of Paris must respect the dignity of those who come to worship, even in the darkest of days."

His instructions seemed to sink in, but he couldn't tell for certain. Not when they had already been in the grip of Frollo for so long, and their loyalties could not be trusted to sway with so little prompting.

At least it was a beginning, if not an accomplished feat.

Phoebus left the cathedral steps, and went to check on Achilles, safe in his posh accommodations at the barracks. He wondered if, were matters to calm down, Esmeralda would like to ride on horseback.

Ah, but would it ever be acceptable to have relations with an Egyptian? For a man such as he, the question was a precarious one. He had his family honor to think of, as well as the marital prospects of his younger sister.

Secretive trysts were one thing, but if word were to spread? What would become of them all?

Even with such considerations in mind, when he saw a cloaked figure while he was leaving the barracks stable, Phoebus's heart jumped at the sight.

He took a quick step in the direction of the cloaked figure, before realizing that the cloak was the wrong shade… Was he being followed by someone _other_ than Esmeralda?

The hair rose on the back of his neck, and he rushed about his business. It was a simple enough matter to secure some food that Esmeralda would find charming.

There were some (semi-) fresh grapes, and cheese that didn't smell too fancy, and also some pastries. Women liked pastries, if he wasn't misremembering something his sister had told him.

He glanced over his shoulder once more at the cloaked figure. Why hadn't this person stopped following him, already?

It may be time for a confrontation… could he afford it? He checked the streets.

There were still some stragglers about their business in the last fading moments of sunlight, but that would be as many as he needed to cover his confrontation effectively, so he tied the bag of food to his belt, and approached the shadowed figure with his sword drawn.

"Halt!" he cried when he saw the cloaked figure run back through the alley.

However, he did not particularly desire to explain butchering someone in the streets, so instead he sheathed his sword, and hurried along back the way he had come in order to find Esmeralda.

His reaction upon actually seeing her did not make him proud, as he confused her with the sinister figure which had menaced him from the shadows.

" _Ai, dios mio!_ " Esmeralda cried at the sight of his drawing his sword. "It's just me!"

Phoebus stood frozen for a sheepish moment, before again sheathing his sword. "Wait in the shadows a little longer while I open my door," he said carefully, and surprisingly, she actually obeyed.

Even when they were alone in his house, and he had drawn the curtain over the window, Phoebus could not relax.

"What happened?" Esmeralda asked him, setting down a wineskin and a pair of roasted pigeons.

He had to tell her, as it could be her the figure meant to investigate. "I found someone on the streets… someone who I think was _watching_ us… it doesn't sit well with me."

Esmeralda reached over to set a hand on his. "Don't worry, I won't let anyone in a cloak get the best of me." She was smiling at him, and eased him into a chair. "I'm sorry the pigeon is cold now… what did you get?"

Phoebus set out all the quarry he had hunted down, and watched her eyes widen with delight.

"These are beautiful!" she exclaimed, and her hand darted out to take one, but she paused. "I… should ask if you want this…"

"I want you to have it," he said gently. Was it insulting? "I bout it for you… I know… ladies usually like pastries, so… as much as I like them, too, I thought…" he blushed at having gotten stuck in his tangled mess, but at least she had probably understood that he didn't mean to offend her.

She snickered at him and snatched up the pastry, eating it so quickly she was soon disappointed by its absence, and grabbed the next one.

Phoebus chuckled softly as he watched, and politely ate the cold pigeon. He hadn't left the fire on in his hearth while he was out for fear of the whole city block catching fire, but he wished he had in order to heat the pigeon. It was like field rations, he told himself, and he would be gracious.

"I don't think I've ever eaten a proper meal with someone I'm not related to," Esmeralda observed.

"It has been a long time since I ate across from someone I actually _wanted_ to," Phoebus responded with a chuckle. "But I'm glad it got to be you."

"I knew you were different…" she murmured. "I think… you and I can be the start of something different. If it's fate or God or chance we have an opportunity to turn our friendship into something that could make a change."

"Do you really believe that?" he asked.

"I do! Someday… people will live in a different world… changes are springing up every day, you know? Maybe all it takes are these new ways of doing things… people won't think of themselves as so different… and it'll be… I don't know…" Her hand went to her heart, and she seemed peaceful in her assurance that it would be so.

A change came over her features then, and he did not know what to expect from behind that wily simile.

"Sastimaso," she said, lifting the wine skin as if she were proposing a toast.

Phoebus stared at her, trying to turn it all over in his mind until it came out as something recognizably French that he could understand without it being garbled.

"It's in my language," she explained, "the language of my people… I've been all over Europe, I've picked languages up from the peoples I've met, but my people still have a tongue of our own."

Phoebus barely restrained a comment about how he wanted to get to know her tongue better, instead he bit his own. "What does it mean?"

"To your health, just like what you say when you make a toast." She lifted the wine skin again, and this time she said it slowly so that he could say it along with her.

Phoebus considered the wine. The last time he'd drunk, he had remembered what had happened to him before the blessing of leaving the front… what would he reveal to her now if he tried to drink joyfully with her?

"Don't you want to?" she asked him.

"I… darling, to be blunt… there are things that drink dredges up in me nowadays…" he gulped. "I fear those memories but I fear you seeing me as something… less than romantic. I have been called a war hero ever since I've returned, and… Well, you know I kind of like it that way."

The mischief in her smile was replaced by a gentle kindness. "I understand… but maybe I can work a little… magic?" she got to her feet, and took a quick swig of the wine.

"Not _real_ magic, right?" Phoebus asked, suddenly remembering the stories his mother had told him when he was a child, as well as the tales he and the men at the front had exchanged over fires when the cold threatened to steal their lives away before a sword had the chance.

"I'll leave it up to you to decide," she said, and took a deep drink from the wine skin, which she then passed to him before twirling before him.

There was no music, but she twirled a green scarf along with her movements, and the coins on her garments clinked merrily with her every movements. She occasionally clapped to punctuate something especially acrobatic she'd done. "Hey, soldier boy, I see you staring!" she snickered at him in a sing-song manner.

Phoebus blushed. "I-I'm sorry, I thought it would be rude not to."

She laughed without malice. "It was a joke."

"Oh," he said softly, the wind quickly draining from his lungs when she leaned close and tiped more wine into his mouth.

With it, as expected, came the unwelcome memories. The stench of death and rotting flesh, the cries of the dying…

Esmeralda leaned close again, and her warm hand caressed his jaw. Suddenly, instead of death, he smelled _her_.

She pulled back again and rather than the cries of long-dead soldiers, he heard the jingling of her coin belt. "Eat," she told him, and he obeyed.

The pigeon did not seven taste as bland and cold as he remembered, and more than that, she began to sing to him.

"Bohemienne…" she began, and he leaned back just to listen to her smoky voice as she told a tale of wandering in search of home.

He couldn't help letting her lull him to sleep, both with the wine and the dreams resultant from it and the song. When he woke with the first chinks of light which fought their way through the curtains, she was gone.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22:

This was probably getting dangerous, Esmeralda told herself when she reached home, but she didn't want to believe that. She had debated whether or not to leave Phoebus, but she had known what might happen between them if she remained.

While her marriage to Pierre may be a farce, she was not one to willingly commit adultery. She didn't have to be well-educated in church doctrine to know that could get her in trouble with God. That was the rumor, anyway.

She curled around Djali when she finally reached her tent, and the goat did not protest, so they were able to sleep until a fresh commotion began in the Court.

"Frollo's gone mad!" voices were shrieking. "Get out! Get out while you can!"

Pierre stood peeking out of the tent, then back at Esmeralda, clearly trying to ask what he should do without knowing the words.

Groggily, Esmeralda instructed him to help her pack everything she owned, bundling it up to make it as compact as could be.

"Would we really leave Paris?" Pierre asked.

"If that's what it takes… Frollo can't live forever," Esmeralda murmured, shrugging off the idea that she would never see Phoebus again as if it wasn't breaking her heart.

"But how will you ever see the sun god again if—" Pierre was silenced preemptively by Esmeralda's foot slamming down on his.

Clopin's attention then turned unwelcomed in her direction, and Esmeralda wished she'd only clapped a hand over Pierre's mouth rather than cause him to make such a ridiculous noise as he had. "This time, you will stay with me!" Clopin ordered her in their own language. "I've let you wander off much too often now, and it stops here!"

Pierre stared at Clopin as if he'd just sprouted wings and a second head. "Es—Esmeralda?" he asked.

"He's not scolding you," she told him without averting her eyes from Clopin. "I don't know if I can promise to stay with you, I may need to help someone while you're helping someone else."

"I don't care what you think you can do! _You_ are the one he's up there looking for! You're the one he's got people hunting, I bet he's finally wised up and knows that you're not in the church anymore!"

"Even if he does, he may have forgotten what I even look like, it's been so long."

"I saw the way he looked at you," Clopin said. "He won't forget what you look like."

Esmeralda shivered, and Pierre very helpfully said, "I agree, I was with him recently and he had your name written all over the walls!"

Esmeralda and Clopin both stared at him, but it was Clopin who lunged at him.

"You were with him and didn't think to finish him off?" Clopin demanded in a high pitched shriek.

"I'm not a killer!" Pierre protested, and tried to break away from Clopin, whose hands began to close around his neck.

" _I am_!" Clopin shouted at him.

"Stop! Stop it!" Esmeralda put her hands on Clopin's arms and tried to wrench them away from Pierre's throat.

Djali bit them hem of Clopin's tunic, and aided her mistress in pulling him off the poet, which he eventually did.

Panting, Clopin hung his head, trying to compose himself.

Esmeralda stood in front of him, and put her hands on his shoulders. "I know why you want to keep me safe, but I also know that if this is my fault, it is also my responsibility to help as many people survive it as I can. I'm not going to abandon the people who live topside just to get myself to safety."

Slowly, Clopin raised his head to meet her eyes. "If you and I are separated… and if I lose you…" she could feel his shoulders shake beneath her hands.

"I will feel the same way if I lose you," she said truthfully. "But I won't be responsible for others being torn apart without trying to keep them together. I have to _try_. When I first faced off against Frollo at the Festival, I was trying to cause a reaction, to spur some kind of change… maybe this is it."

Clopin peered into her eyes with an inscrutable look in his own, but pulled her into a wordless hug rather than continue to rail against her. He pressed a kiss to her forehead then and turned away, still shaking, to supervise further evacuations. "Extra patrols tonight!" he called, and his voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling above them.

It would be all they could do, but even that, Esmeralda thought as she guided Pierre in dividing all their belongings between the two of them and wearing them, then let Djali mount her shoulders so they could appear to be an old man again.

They emerged to find soldiers patrolling the streets of Paris, questioning everyone they found as to whether or not they knew where to find Esmeralda.

Over the course of the day, Esmeralda and Pierre raced ahead of the soldiers, among whom was Phoebus to her disappointment. Their smuggling efforts were moderately successful, though they watched helplessly each time they were too late to prevent the soldiers from finding one family or other.

The worst of it came past dusk, however, when they stood at the edge of a crowd outside a mill. At first, Esmeralda thought the fact that she could see Phoebus there beside Frollo as he entered the mill meant that he would prevent the mad judge from harming innocents.

Mere minutes proved her wrong.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23:

The pleasant haze of the night before faded quickly. For the first time in days, when Phoebus checked into the Palace of Justice for orders, he found Frollo preparing his carriage for the day.

Phoebus stood at attention in front of the guards who were supposedly under his command.

Frollo stood on the stair up to his carriage as he gazed at his miniature army. His eyes seemed to have sunken deeper into the shadows and his skin looked still more pale and ashen than before.

"Are you… feeling well, sir?" he asked warily, and for his trouble received a ferocious side-eye.

"I had some difficulties last night with the fireplace, it occupied my entire night."

The fireplace must have been belching up an ash storm, to have him this cranky, or else it was a deflection. Probably the latter.

"What are your orders… sir?" Phoebus asked, remembering to tack on the honorific at the last moment.

"It has come to my attention that despite reports to the contrary, the gypsy girl has escaped the Cathedral."

The men behind Phoebus were shifting uneasily, but Phoebus knew that it was he that Frollo had focused that dark-eyed glare upon.

"What re your orders, sir?" Phoebus asked.

"Isn't that obvious, boy?" Frollo snapped, "find the girl!"

With those words, he launched a hunt which eroded any memory Phoebus had of the kind, generous Claude of his childhood. This wild hunt led the soldiers throughout the city, where the poorly disciplined guardsmen were utterly out of Phoebus's hands as they roughly mistreated French citizens and Egyptians alike.

Everything Phoebus had sought to do since arriving in the city was undone before his eyes. Gone was all hope that he could inspire more civility within the ranks and harmony with the people. They would never be trusted again.

All Phoebus could do was stand at attention and watch Frollo threaten and bribe families who were known to harbor gypsies as well as the gypsies, themselves. Each time someone refused or was unable to supply Frollo with the information he sought, he would order them taken away, either to his own personal dungeons at the Palace of Justice or the Bastille.

Either way, all Phoebus could think was that at least for a time, there were fewer soldiers on the streets.

"Sir," he said at last, when he rode alongside Frollo's black charger on his own pale gray. "Is this lawful? All these mass arrests, is there any cause?"

"They are harboring a witch!" Frollo snarled at Phoebus. "Don't you understand the gravity of that?"

"I could understand that if the allegations were proven and there was a due coarse of action which led us through the proper channels," Phoebus said diplomatically, keeping his tone low and even.

"It so happens that I asked permission from the king, himself this morning," Frollo sneered at his inferior.

"The king?" Phoebus asked in utter dismay.

"Indeed! In the future, Captain, leave it to your intellectual superiors to decide who is and is not worthy of arrest. I hope this is the last time you question my authority."

Phoebus stared at the swinging scarlet train of Frollo's hat as he rode ahead of him, and was relieved that at least the judge could not see the incredulity on his face.

What in God's name had induced the King of France to sanction this behavior? Had he even been listening?

Was he listening now to the wails of despair from his people? Or, Phoebus considered grimly, did he think himself so high above his people that he didn't care?

Thunder rumbled in his chest, and then his gut. His humors must be out of balance…

Or he was just aware that they were approaching an isolated mill, and a crowd was forming outside it.

Phoebus gulped.

It looked like nothing so much as a siege.

It had been four… or six weeks… on the front, ordering his archers to fire into the city, hearing the screams of dread and injury alike.

It was no victory. He was called a hero but it was no victory.

Those who had died at his hand were guilty only of defending their own homes, for all he cared. And yet he had been a tool in the hand of the king, to whom none of this was a concern.

Phoebus's mind was still swimming with this whirlpool of nightmare and philosophy when he dismounted automatically to follow Frollo into the mill.

"My lord, what brings you to us?" asked the aging, balding patriarch of the little family, which included his wife and three children, the last of whom was a baby.

Phoebus silently prayed that this would end quickly, before they could trouble these poor peasants any more than they already had.

The respect paid him by the peasant temporarily appeased Frollo, who said, "I have heard whispers which indicate that you and your family are complicit in harboring gypsies who enter the city illegally and who are fleeing the hand of the law," he said in an even drawl.

"Our home is always open to the weary traveler…" the miller said without admitting anything. "It is our Christian duty to offer hospitality to those who are less fortunate than we."

Phoebus detected a slight upturn of Frollo's nose, and intuition told him this was in response to being reminded that indeed, Christians were exhorted to behave in quite a different manner than he was, himself.

"Have you or have you not been harboring gypsies?" Frollo demanded of them.

The miller dropped to his knees. "Anyone who comes to us, we offer them a place to stay," he said, still noncommittally, but it was clear from how he tried to evade the question that it was so.

Phoebus looked from him to his wife and children, who were standing huddled against the far wall. The wife's eyes met his in a panic, and he knew indeed that their lives must depend on him.

He had to stand between Frollo's madness and innocent lives, in spite of the king and whatever he was willing to sanction.

"I am placing you under house arrest, if what you say is true and you are innocent, then you have nothing to fear," Frollo said evenly, without a hint of menace in his words, as cold as they were. He turned his back on the peasants and began to depart, even while the peasant man began to beg him.

"But we _are_ innocent!" he protested. "Please! We know nothing of these gypsies!" It was too late.

Phoebus cast a look over his shoulder which he hoped would reassure them that he was not going to abandon their cause before following Frollo.

Once Phoebus had stepped outside the mill, however, with a defense of the miller's family on his lips, he saw Frollo board up the door with a sickly smile on his thin, pale lips.

House arrest. Right. On these peasants who were only being charitable.

Frollo then whirled on Phoebus, and spat out the words, "Burn it," then turned his back on the captain as if this was all he had to say without further explanation.

" _What_?" Phoebus demanded, flames exploding in his chest.

"Until it smolders," Frollo elaborated, mounting his horse. "These people are traitors and must be made examples of."

At first, Phoebus was speechless, staring at the torch Frollo handed him before returning his gaze to the judge himself. "With all due respect sir, I was not trained to murder the innocent," he said.

Frollo's eyes widened with fury, and he leaned down at him as if in doing so he could intimidate a soldier who had seen far worse than his rickety old frame. "But you _were_ trained to _follow orders_!" Frollo shouted, and leaned still closer. "And if you don't, I'll tell everyone that you've been _fraternizing_ with one of them. I saw you last night."

"And how will you prove that?" Phoebus asked in an equally low voice, though his was hot with challenge as he gritted his teeth. He should have chased the bastard down and killed him the night before! Who could blame him for killing a miscreant in a cloak? "Will you admit to everyone that you've gone barking mad and you're stalking the streets at night like some kind of demon?"

Frollo recoiled at that suggestion, but quickly collected himself. He snatched the torch away from Phoebus, and rode past him with intent to burn the house down.

Rather than permit this, Phoebus lurched forward and seized the hem of Frollo's robe, and yanked him down from his horse.

The torch rolled away impotently to find itself extinguished by Phoebus's dunking it in a barrel of water beside the door to the mill.

"How _dare you defy me_?" Frollo snarled from the floor, on all fours like the snake in Eden before it had been cursed.

All Phoebus would have to do if he wanted to snuff out the imp of a judge would be a boot heel to the face, but Phoebus was not _like_ Frollo.

"Because only one of us is a heartless murderer, Claude!" he shouted down at him.

"Seize the traitor!" Frollo cried, and suddenly soldiers were upon him.

Phoebus expected to take down one or two men before they swarmed him, but the swarm which overtook him first was neither made up of soldiers, nor was it hostile to him.

Instead, peasants roared on all sides of him, rushing past him and hurling themselves at the soldiers. The fight was woefully imbalanced, but Phoebus lent aid wherever he could.

"Arrest them! Arrest them!" Frollo squawked from the center of the crowd, and because Phoebus guessed nobody would see, he took the liberty of punching his superior in the jaw.

Frollo reeled back and Phoebus concerned himself with separating a soldier from a peasant he was overpowering, a reedy man who was making panicked gibbering noises in the midst of the attack.

"Everyone who can, run!" he cried, pushing the reedy fellow so he would get a head start.

A flash of naked steel brought his sword from its sheath, and he bit back at the sword strike of first one soldier, then another, doing his best to deflect without killing any of them.

At the end of it, they were only following orders, and it had been hammered into their skulls for years.

Someone was at his shoulder, and that person _bleated_ at him.

Phoebus stood stalk still, staring into a goat's face, and thus did not see someone stab him in the back. He was on his knees before he saw that below that goat's face was that of Esmeralda.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24:

It was all her fault. Every moment of it.

If only she hadn't provoked Frollo…

There was no time to think of that!

Phoebus sank before her, and behind him stood none other than Frollo. Such violent rage had never burned through Esmeralda; no hatred had so threatened to consume her. Now, in the gathering darkness, she heard the judge laugh and the cold demonic inhumanity in the sound consumed her concern for Phoebus's wellbeing.

For all she knew, he was already dead, and could no longer be helped.

But this creature… he had crept through some unholy portal and now he threatened to steal the life of a good man, or had already done so. _He would pay_!

Esmeralda drew the dagger from her leg holster and lunged at Frollo, who only feinted and shouted, "Look! The Gypsy Esmeralda is here and has struck down the Captain of the guard!"

Esmeralda's eyes flashed through the brawling crowd, and watched them stop just to stare at her.

A short distance off, Pierre was staring at her.

Three things would have to happen now, and they had to happen simultaneously.

Her pouch of flash powder startled everyone, choking them on its dancing particles, and in a spark of inspiration, she lobbed a rock at the horse which was just a short distance off.

The horse reared and instantly those who could see turned away from the choking pink cloud to tend the massive horse.

An arm clasped Esmeralda's in the confusion as she tried to extricate herself, and she noticed that Phoebus was not quite as dead as she'd thought he was. "What…?" he croaked at her.

"I'm saving you," she whispered, and noticed Pierre rushing towards them.

"Esme!" he panted. "Thank God you're alive!"

Esmeralda craned her neck around and saw people trying to calm the horse. "That's going to be a problem…"

"Do another one of those… things you did…" Pierre suggested while peasants ran back toward the city. "I'll help you with… him. I know you'll need it."

For the first time, Esmeralda took for granted that Pierre could actually help her.

"Let's get to the riverbank," she said, and threw her own cloak over Phoebus's back. "We need to get rid of his armor, there's no way we can carry him like this."

Pierre helped her divest Phoebus of his armor, but they left him with his sword.

They weren't necessarily cowards, but they knew how to play the odds. They blended well with the other Parisians, save for Djali trotting along with them as an obvious marker of difference.

Once they were within the city limits, Esmeralda and Pierre ducked into an alley to allow the other peasants to pass by without being considered part of their group.

"We need to hurry…" Phoebus muttered. "Frollo will have his men flood the streets… close combat… polearms… swords…"

"What are we to do about polearms?" Pierre asked. "We are unarmed except for you, and neither of us knows how to wield a sword.

"Tighter the space… he won't be able to swing… you have to… make sure they have to follow you single file…"

"What we need to do is sew up your wound before you lose too much blood," Esmeralda replied. "You're already leaving a trail right to us."

"Leave me then… Esmeralda… you have to get to safety…"

"No, it's my fault this happened, I won't abandon you!" Esmeralda clung to him, clawing through her mind for any hint of where she could take him that would be safe.

There was only one.

"Stay with us, we've got a long journey ahead of us," she said softly, "come on, Pierre, we're taking him to Notre Dame."


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25:

His feet traced countless steps while Phoebus faded in and out of consciousness. The pain was throbbing in his back, but something tightly wound around him told him that he'd received a bandage at some point.

Priests were leading them through corridors, or at least he could smell incense and heard various references to holy things whispered with anxious breaths.

"He has sanctuary," Esmeralda told someone, "I heard him say it when we got in."

Well, that was probably a lie, but he'd lied for her, as well, so he felt no guilt.

Then they were ascending, and he wondered if he were being dragged up to haven while his feet automatically moved along with those feet on either side of him.

Finally she heard Esmeralda whisper, "I'll be back soon, I promise," and leave him to open a door.

Phoebus longed for the return of her warmth and her steady assurance the instant she was gone.

"Quasi?" he heard her ask before he blacked out again.

When next he awoke, it was to find the blurry face of Esmeralda hovering over him. He wanted to explain to her why he had participated in Frollo's purge, but she shushes him with a finger to his lips before he could utter a word.

He took stock of himself, as he was so distant from his body he could hardly feel it.

Everything seemed… warmer…

He was lying on something soft, and his muscles sighed with the release of tension. He no longer had to stand, no longer had to stay upright. Esmeralda had lain him on his chest, so that she could tend to the wound on his back, and her hands were quickly working to first undo the bandage she'd put on him, and then to pull up his tunic so that there was no barrier to his wound.

"Esmeralda…" he whispered, looking up at her from the one eye that could see her.

"Shh," she spared one finger from her work to shush his lips again. "You'll stay here until you're strong enough to move. You're in good hands, now, I know you'll be safe."

"Your hands weren't all that terrible," he smirked at her.

She smirked back at him, but in flickering candlelight, he could still see concern in her eyes. She placed one warm hand against his cheek, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed how cold he'd been. "I'm doing all I can… that family owes you their lives… you're a hero, Phoebus."

He noted a hint of something like worship in the way she said his name. It was so endearing…

"That's really the first time I've felt like one," he admitted while he felt her hands shifting at the wound on his back.

That bastard Frollo, _of course_ he'd know just where the joints in his armor were.

"Nonsense, you're a war hero," she said gently.

He snorted. "Ask the Italians. They'll say something different… They're Catholics just like us, you know? They didn't do anything… they were just… we were hired to…" He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't afford to lose it right now.

"Italians?" she asked softly, but when he looked at her, she must have seen something in his eyes that convinced her not to ask again. "I'm going to stitch you up. It's going to hurt, but it's better than bleeding out," she told him.

"I can take it, I've had worse," he said, flashing her his best debonair smile.

When he saw her take a wine flask from someone, he grinned all the broader. "Great! I could use a drink!"

She seemed distracted at first, but she looked him over and offered him a sip of it.

He grimaced even as the alcohol burned its way through him and he recognized its bouquet. "Ah!" he coughed before Esmeralda poured the rest of the wine out on his back wound, at which point he cried out once more. "1470 Burgundy…" he grimaced at the taste, but yet it was still somewhat comforting in its familiarity. "Not a good year…" he coughed.

"It's the best I can do," she said apologetically, and he was sorry for his ill-conceived joke.

"I just mean… sorry, I wanted to lighten the…" he grunted as the needle slipped in and out of his flesh.

"I understand," she said, bending to snip the end of the thread with her teeth. "You know… of all the soldiers I've seen… you're either the bravest or the craziest."

He snorted, and rolled his eyes. "At this point I believe I'm an _ex_ -soldier, remember? I am meant to be dead… dishonorable discharge after all that I tried to build… my family will be _so pleased_."

"I'm sorry… I've dragged you down with me, and you've dishonored your family…" her hand was trembling on his wound, but he took it and rolled over despite the tremendous effort it required.

"I've done an awful lot of things I'm not proud of," he told her softly, gazing up into her brilliant emerald eyes. "But that? What I've done tonight? I wouldn't change a moment... well," he cocked his lopsided grin at her, "except for the moment I got stabbed… that could have gone better."

"For everyone," she nodded. "How does your wound feel?"

"You've done a great job with me," he said, and pressed her hand to his heart.

"At least Frollo had bad aim, he didn't hit anything important. He could have pierced your heart."

His lips twitched into a smirk. "He missed, but Cupid didn't," he said, instantly regretting the mythology reference as it may not transfer.

Regardless of whether she caught his reference, she leaned closer, and he wasn't about to waste that opportunity.

Their kiss burned with the passions which had been building silently in their hearts for the past days, nearly knocking Phoebus out of consciousness with its ferocity. Instead he propped himself up on one elbow as he felt Esmeralda lean against his chest so he could feel how they had begun to share the same racing pulse.

If only it could last an eternity… but alas, the haze was pulling Phoebus back, and he was aware that as un-heroic as he was bound to look, he was about to need a nap in just a few moments.

"Sleep…" he heard Esmeralda whisper to him through the creeping haze, with her palm pressed to his cheek. "I need you to regain your strength soon… things aren't getting any easier out there…"

He nodded as he sank back against the pillow beneath him, dreams of her dancing in his mind, as if they were back at his little house, sharing an evening together untroubled by the outside world… he fell into this so easily, he was not prepared for the rude awakening which lay ahead.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26:

Reluctant to leave Phoebus, Esmeralda lingered at his bedside, gazing fondly down at his sleeping face. Once again, he was peaceful in his slumber, as he had been when she left him sleeping in his chair.

Whatever dark memories shadowed his dreams, they did not seem to trouble him, now.

Djali's frantic bleating startled Esmeralda out of her peaceful reverie, and her head whipped around to see what had frightened her.

Pierre peered out the window, and she saw his knees wobble.

She lingered a moment longer before she acknowledged that she had to rise, and left Phoebus's side. Far below them, she could see Frollo's distinctive hat as he calmly exited a carriage and walked to the door.

Panic buzzed hot and furious through her skull, and she looked from Djali and Pierre to Phoebus, knowing even then that Frollo would most likely trade them all for her. If given the choice, would she let him take her to save the rest?

She shuddered with the horror of even contemplating the possibility.

"Quick!" Quasimodo had grabbed her by the arm, and she was glad to have something to release her from her crescendo of panic. "Frollo will take the North Tower steps so he can reach us, but you have to take the South Tower steps and pass him! Ask the deacons to show you out, you have to hurry!"

He was pushing her along, but it was Pierre and Djali running out without waiting for further instructions.

She could not leave yet! Not when she knew Phoebus was still lying out in the open! She turned to Quasimodo, who had the grace not to keep pushing her when she was trying to speak. "Be careful, my friend," she said, clasping Quasimodo's hand in both of hers. It was warm, and riddled with calluses, not to mention larger than her head, but it was gentle instead of harsh. "I need you to promise me that you won't let anything happen to him."

He gave her a wide-eyed gaze as his mouth hung open, and paused before finally bowing his head and promising that he would.

The sense of urgency returned just as soon as she had thanked him. Would a prayer for safety count more inside a church? She hoped so, because she didn't dare speak it louder than a whisper.

Pierre began to complain about his feet, and Esmeralda had to give him a sharp look over her shoulder.

"If you, with your shoes, keep complaining about your feet, I will push you down these stairs!" she hissed at him.

At the foot of the stairs, they ran across the Archdeacon, and skidded to a halt. They stood before him like a pair of misbehaving children, and awaited a scolding which did not come.

"We have to get you out," the Archdeacon whispered, and cast a shifty glance through the church. "There is little I can do without losing my position, but there are more people praying here than usual… a blessing of a kind," he scratched at his brow.

"Holy father, how will we survive?" Pierre whispered.

"There are some monks here who are going to circumambulate the church with me and spread incense and prayers… I've convinced two of them to let you use their spare robes… we have to hurry! You can leave by the door they take when they leave, and none will be the wiser."

Pierre and Esmeralda shared a glance in amazement at the very idea that they would be able to hide among monks and priests.

"I-I… have a question…" Pierre cleared his throat. "Could we stay in the monastery until it's safe to go? I mean… rather, that we should wait until Frollo stops searching for Esmeralda?"

The Archdeacon was still ushering them along, but as he reached the monks and took spare robes from them, then hurried them into the robes.

"A woman cannot stay among monks," he said at last, while Esmeralda maneuvered Djali onto her shoulder and let her be the face which protruded from the monk's robe.

"But... not even for a little while?" Pierre asked.  
"What about sanctuary?"

"The monks cannot have a woman in their midst," the Archdeacon said in gentle grimness.

"You should stay with them, Pierre," Esmeralda said. "You're in danger among us, and you don't even look like us. If you just left, and blended in with the monks, you would never be in danger."

From under Djali's chin, Esmeralda saw him ponder it.

"But what about you?"

"I think the more allies we have outside, the easier it'll be to find escape routes like this," she replied. "I got you into this mess, but it isn't your fight. Do you want to be hanged or burned along with—"

"That is a _very_ good point! I'm sure you'll move more quickly without me… and I _did_ help you to rescue your sun god…"

She rushed forward and gave him a swift hug, short enough that it would not appear unseemly from one monk to another. "I pray you will have a better chance to help again, but now we have to escape."

He returned the hug, gently and gingerly. He had no words, for once, and it gave Esmeralda a moment more to think.

As the procession began to move through the church, she hung close to the Archdeacon and asked, "If someone were someone upstairs who needed medical care, he'd be able to help."

The Archdeacon smiled softly, and shook his head while the incense began to swing back and forth before him. "I lost the ability to walk up those stairs long ago, and I do not think it wise to let someone else hear of your friend… For now, child, just be assured that your friend is in the hands of God."

The prayers which began then were unfamiliar to Esmeralda, they were not in any language she was aware of… however not understanding the words helped her to better concentrate on the earnest ardor they were spoken in.

She imparted the fears in her own heart to the prayer, hoping that even though she didn't know the words, God would understand this as her reaching out to him.

Too soon, the procession reached a door, and she was led out with the other monks. They passed a swarm of soldiers while Esmeralda's heart raced. Every moment, she fretted that she would be seen and recognized as an imposter, but they passed unhindered.

So that she could not implicate the monks, she slipped away when she was sure they would not see, leaving their robe with them, and scurried home.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27:

With Esmeralda's disappearance, the hands which seized Phoebus were not gentle nor were they charitable. Instead they were large and calloused and businesslike, but they were nothing compared to the kick which unceremoniously slammed him in the side, right next to his wound.

Despite the weight of fatigue which pressed down on him, Phoebus was startled awake by the pain and the instinctive fear that his stitches would open and his life's blood would flow forth.

Granted, h was saved from that horror, but momentarily he heard Quasimodo stuttering a greeting to his "master" and the fear returned, holding Phoebus paralyzed in its grip.

So much for the better, he could take a hint. Now if he could just slip back into slumber, perhaps he would hold still as well as regain his strength…

Claude Frollo drawled something about food, and Phoebus instantly visualized his stomach full of cobwebs. How long had it been since he'd paused to eat? He'd been so busy all day focused on what Frollo had forced him to do…

Loud clatters and crashes from a far corner made him jump. Were they looking for him?

Tension in his back threatened to burst through his stitches. Why couldn't he just heal faster?

"Is something troubling you, Quasimodo?" Claude drawled.

Quasimodo stuttered out a few indications to the contrary, but still Frollo was not in the least convinced. In fact, he sounded _smug_ … what did he know?

The strain of holding still was becoming unbearable, along with the mounting fear of discovery.

This was not helped at all when he heard Frollo speak again, saying: "I think… you're _hiding_ something…" in a low purr like a lion facing off against a martyr.

Again Quasimodo's hurried protests were dismissed, in favor of a sharp admonition from master to… servant? Really, what kind of arrangement was this that Quasimodo was constantly groveling and calling Frollo his master?

"You're not eating boy!" Frollo scolded.

Sweet slumber drew a curtain over Phoebus's consciousness, but not for long, as his wound flared up as in vengeance for being forgotten.

He moaned in the throes of the radiating pain, having completely forgotten where he was and under which circumstances. Lacking this awareness, he did not restrain a second sigh, either.

An instant later, fresh blunt pain slammed into his jaw, driving out all consciousness in favor of all-consuming darkness.

It lasted until a crash overhead broke through his shell of unconsciousness. Someone was shouting, " _You idiot_!" but he drifted out before he decided if that was meant for him.

Nobody had shouted at him like that in years… he had done too well at rising up the ranks…

There again were words filtering through the shadows, velvet words that wrapped noose-wise about his mind. "But what chance could a poor, misshapen child like you have against her heathen treachery? Well, never you mind, Quasimodo. She will be out of our lives soon enough. I will free you from her evil spell. She will torment you no longer."

Those ominous words crawled into Phoebus's heart and petrified it.

Leave it to Quasimodo to deny the implicit meaning and ask for clarification…

Each word tripped venomously from Frollo's fangs—or rather his mouth. "I know where her hideout is, and tomorrow, at dawn, I attack with a thousand men!"

That was all he needed. Phoebus knew one thing, and that was how to rise to the occasion when he was needed. His limbs were infused with the strength he required, though he could not guess the source.

He peered out from under what he now realized was a table, and watched as Frollo descended out of sight. He did not move, however, until he heard a slamming door.

What had been the purpose of this visit? Why had he thought it necessary to inform Quasimodo of all this?

There was no time for deliberations! He had to save Esmeralda before it was too late! He certainly owed her after all she'd gone through to preserve his life! "We have to find the Court of Miracles, before daybreak," he said, and somehow his voice did not waver with pain or fatigue. "If Frollo gets there first..." there would be untold tragedy to follow… poor Esmeralda would… he couldn't let her down! "Are you coming with me?" he asked Quasimodo.

"I can't," the dejected hunchback replied, looking as if he was a dog which had gotten a kick to the gut. It must have been him who'd been called an idiot, by his _master_ …

But Phoebus had been ejected from the profession he'd worked his whole life for, and his superior had threatened him with worse than a little insult… Perhaps there was something deeper, but, "I thought you were Esmeralda's friend!" he contended exactly as the words entered his mind.

Bitterly, Quasimodo refused to look at him as he said, "Frollo is my master. I _can't_ disobey him again."

"She stood up for you!" Phoebus protested. "You've got a funny way of showing gratitude!"

He paused, dangling the accusation of ingratitude in front of him in the hopes that this would provoke him to act on his better nature.

However, he merely stood sullenly with his back turned to Phoebus. Just being around this groveling, sniveling dog was beginning to irritate Phoebus. He stared at the hunched back before him, the back of a man who refused to aid those in need.

Was it his chivalric upbringing which deemed this so disgusting? Whatever it was, Phoebus had no time to wade through the muck in Quasimodo's psyche. He turned to descend the stairs.

"Well, I'm not going to sit by and watch Frollo massacre innocent people!" he snarled. "You do what you think is right. I just thought you were a man who would protect his friends."

"I'm not a man," Quasimodo muttered quietly. "I'm a monster."

Phoebus turned a sneer on Quasimodo. "You can hide behind that excuse all you like, but the choice is yours. Whatever you choose, I hope you can live with it!"

With that he left the bell tower behind, and walked out into the crisp moonlit air. How long was it until dawn? He tried to remember the last time he'd heard the bells toll the time… Had it been six? Seven?

Ah, it did not signify!

Who could say how long he had lain unconscious? If only so many stairs did not loom before him… So many opportunities awaited the chance that he may lose consciousness and crack open his skull on the stone steps. Then what good would all Esmeralda's effort to save him do?

He had to pace himself.

Slowly, he eased himself from on high to the mortal plane. Despite the pain in his shoulder and face, he stumbled down the many, many steps, thinking at one point that it was a dream and he was actually going right down to Hell.

He _had_ defied orders, after all, did that mean he was essentially a bad man, after all? Ah, but it had been the right thing to do… he couldn't bear to think of what would have happened to those children and that baby…

He paused to lean against the wall and pant, fighting back the mental images. Even though the family was safe, or at least they had been safe the last time he'd gone by that way, the screams were too easy to imagine. He could hear the screams of the families who had fallen to the siege…

No! he had to press on!

His head was swimming, and he wondered if it was down to the dagger wound in his back, or his concern for Esmeralda, or because Quasimodo had kicked him in the face. Perhaps it was because by all accounts, one of those things should have killed him.

He paused, opening a side door, to collect himself once more. No sooner had he decided that he was well enough to take another step and exit the cathedral than something dropped down from above and hissed his name.

It was not one of his prouder moments, but he couldn't help crying out in terror and pressing a hand to his much-harried heart.

"I'm coming with you!" Quasimodo said, as it was he who dropped down to the ground in front of Phoebus.

In order to save his manly image, Phoebus smiled more quickly than he was prepared to. "I'm glad you changed your mind," he said honestly.

Still with a distinct edge of bitterness, Quasimodo replied, "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for her." What had he ever done to this fellow?

"Do you know where she is?" he asked.

"No, but she said this would help us find her," Quasimodo said, revealing a small wooden necklace and holding it up for inspection.

"Good, good, good!" Phoebus exclaimed in order to stall long enough to figure it out. "Ah… Great!" Unfortunately, when he held it before his face, its meaning did not suddenly become clear, as he had hoped it would. At last he was forced to ask what it was, and surrender his pretenses.

"I'm not sure," Quasimodo admitted much more easily.

"Hmm," Phoebus massaged his aching jaw, half out of habit and half because he was worried there was a fracture there. "Must be some sort of code." He may as well throw out a theory since otherwise neither of them would get anywhere. Come to think of it, he'd better just share _all_ of his theories! "Maybe it's Arabic, no, no, it's not Arabic," there were none of the characteristic swooshing characters and disjointed dots, rather there were just a few random smatterings of different colored string and some tarnished jewels. "Maybe it's ancient Greek..." he muttered, but even this did not yield a better clue.

The Greeks were not known for cryptic little woven amulets, they would much rather inscribe a figure or a set of figures on this amulet and the clues would be bound up in symbolism easily recognized by anyone who knew their stories.

In the midst of his random theorizing, he heard Quasimodo mutter something to himself. When he was pressed for an explanation, Quasimodo said, "It's the city!"

"What are you talking about?" Phoebus asked.

"It's a map!" Quasimodo insisted. He pointed to the center of the amulet, as if that was meant to mean something. "See, here's the cathedral, and the river, and this little—"

They were wasting time! Phoebus cut in with, "I've never seen a map that looks like this and—"

It didn't matter that he tried to say it wasn't a map, as Quasimodo refused to let go of the notion and even talked over him, insisting that it was one.

They each took deep, frustrated breaths, but as they did, Phoebus realized that they really were wasting precious time, and they needed to hurry in order to find Esmeralda before it was too late.

"If you say it's a map, fine, it's a map," he said in irritation. "If we're going to find Esmeralda, we have to work together. Truce?" He gave Quasimodo a back slap of camaraderie, hoping to encourage cooperation.

He ought to have thought that through. When Quasimodo returned the back slap, it was right above the tender spot where his wound still afflicted him. It was impossible to hide his cry of agony as the sheer force of the blow was more than he could take in his maddeningly delicate condition.

"Sorry," Quasimodo said in that same bitter tone, and it made Phoebus frown, though he was beyond arguing with him.

Still, he grunted irritably, "No, you're not."

He had to focus. It wasn't important that he got along with Quasimodo and his moody brooding. It was important that they rescued Esmeralda and whoever she was hiding with.

What still troubled him as they crept through the darkened streets of Paris was why Quasimodo seemed to hate him so much.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28:

It was really too bad that Esmeralda had already packed up her tent, because she was too weary to pitch it again for a nap. Her legs were weary as her heart raced.

Had Phoebus been discovered? Was he being tortured? How would she know? She may never see him again and she _loved_ him!

She swallowed, trying to remember that Quasimodo was clever and capable, and that the Archdeacon himself had said that Phoebus was in the hands of God…

Turning her head to find something that would distract her, Esmeralda noticed something… a familiar jar… it was the same as the one from the night of her impromptu wedding to Pierre. Its pieces had been crudely bonded back together into a single jar, and she marveled at it as she turned it over in her hands. It was clear someone had put a great deal of thought into this.

With a smile, she tucked it among the things that she would take with her when she left. It would be a reminder of how yet another friend set her free.

"So you're finally divorced?" the familiar voice of Clopin turned her attention to him.

"Yes… and I'm glad of it, he was kind to let me go," she gave him a gentle smile.

"It was an unorthodox way, but that makes it clear enough." He was still tapping his foot, giving her a look which said he was formulating a speech to give her. "Why were you gone so long?"

"Frollo attacked this miller's family outside of town and… A soldier saved them before I could…" she knew this next phrase would spark something, so she held it in as long as she could, before finally explaining, "I hid the soldier in a safe place and tended to his wounds."

Clopin burst into a maniacal laugh which brought the attention of the people around them. " _A soldier! You risked your life and nearly made what's left of my hair fall out over a_ **soldier _?_** "

"Over a hero!" she countered. "Clopin, we have allies out there, we can't afford to lose them!"

Those words broke through the mania, somehow, and he gave her a gentle-eyed look, slowly removing his hat and rubbing at his brow.

Esmeralda had never considered Clopin an old man, but he showed a flash of feeble vulnerability with his balding head bowed, which took her aback. How could they survive if their king was weak?

"I would kill to keep you safe, _ma cherie_ , but how can I when you never let me be there when it counts?"

She didn't bother to tell him he could have done more at the festival, she merely got herself upright on her protesting feet and threw her arms around him. There were so many things she still could not tell him, not when there was a war on, but perhaps someday…

A scout ran up to Clopin with a frantic look in his eyes behind his skull mask. "My king! There are intruders in the cemetery tunnel!"

The familiar mad glint returned to Clopin's eyes, and he said, "Looks like my chance to kill was just hand-delivered!"

Esmeralda watched him prance away like a rabid monkey, the malnourished kind that would dance for coppers… just like her… and gone wrong.

Why did her dear Clopin always have to look like a nightmare? Speaking of nightmares, she may be living in one, but everyone had to sleep eventually…


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29:

If there were one thing that could make Phoebus superstitious, it would have to be a graveyard. He tried to stay away from them at every opportunity. No place overcrowded with the dead held fair portents for the living.

Still, Esmeralda's fate was more important than his discomfort, so he pressed on, casting quick glances over his shoulder under the pretense of checking on Quasimodo, but really looking for spooks.

It would have been better if they could joke between themselves, but the way that Quasimodo kept his head bowed made it clear he did not have the same urge to humor.

The found one grave at the center of the cemetery which stood out from the others. It was not only taller, but as Phoebus pointed out to Quasimodo, it looked just like the symbol on the map.

"Does that mean we've found the place?" Quasimodo asked, glancing around the cemetery. "I don't see anyone."

"Just because we don't see anyone doesn't mean they aren't here…" Phoebus said thoughtfully. "Maybe there's another message… I can see an inscription here," he held his torch closer to it, and realized that it was _definitely_ Latin. "It will take me a few minutes to translate this…" he admitted

Rather than wait for him to do that, Quasimodo hauled the massive marble lid off of the tomb, revealing a long staircase into the shadows.

Phoebus cleared his throat and said, "Yes, well, that works." When they reached the foot of the stairs, the trail went cold. Or rather, it went damp. Part of the chamber they discovered was flooded, and it was lined on either side with skeletons. " _Sacre bleu_ , I didn't realize we would have to investigate the catacombs," Phoebus muttered under his breath. As they walked through it, trying to skirt the sewage, Phoebus thought that something must be watching him. Was it a ghost from the graveyard above, or were the skeletons all around them haunted? He crossed himself, either way. "Is _this_ the Court of Miracles?" Quasimodo whispered. How anyone could live in a place like the one they were pressing deeper into? At last, Phoebus could not restrain his humor. "Offhand, I'd say it's the Court of Ankle Deep Sewage," he quipped. Ah, that felt better. It almost made up for the sheer paranoia oppressing Phoebus's mind. Maybe he could solve the issue with another jape. "Cheerful place. Kinda makes you wish you got out more often, eh Quasi?" Unfortunately, it had no effect on his companion. "Not me. I just want to warn Esmeralda and get back to the bell tower. I don't want to get in any more trouble." There was that subservience again. Such maddening and needless obsequiousness! In the midst of it, Phoebus was aware that perhaps his paranoia was something sensible rather than his mind playing tricks on him. Numerous times since entering the catacombs, he had felt as if he had seen the skulls move… But surely they had not… surely that was his imagination. Still attempting to inject levity, Phoebus said, "Speaking of trouble, we should have run into some by now." "What do you mean?" Quasimodo asked, more innocently than Phoebus had expected. "You know," or perhaps he didn't, "a guard, a booby trap..." They were suddenly plunged into complete darkness, as by some unknown means both of their torches were extinguished. It should have been obvious what was about to happen to them, and yet it had not been. That was his failing. "Or an ambush…" he muttered. Suddenly voices were shouting at them in a roar of derisive laughter and something like war cries. A lanky fellow in motley appeared overhead, and he sneered, "Well, well, well, what have we here?" Someone among those who had seized Phoebus and Quasimodo from behind shouted that they were trespassers, and then someone else said that they were spies. "We're not spies!" Phoebus shouted. "You've got to listen—" Quasimodo added just before both his mouth and Phoebus's were tied shut with gags. "Don't interrupt me!" the motley man shouted with a smirk. "You're very clever to have found our hideaway but you won't live to tell the tale!" Was this how it would all end? Mocked to death by the people he'd come to rescue? Here they were, all boasting of their formidable nature, but what would they do when Frollo and his men arrived? Their ability to disguise themselves as cripples wouldn't save them, Frollo had no pity! _And where was Esmeralda_? This idiot clown would get her killed! He did not even care to fear when he was brought onto a scaffold and he could see nooses hanging before him. His death would come soon and it was all for nothing! All he could do was glare at the stupid clown prancing about and bragging about his ability to murder two unarmed guests. The noose was around his neck, time was slipping past… if only he could free his voice… " _Stop_!"


	30. Chapter 30

Author's Note: I wanted to take a moment to thank all those who have left such kind reviews. You put a smile on my face each time I see you're having fun like I am!

Chapter 30:

Jehan Frollo was a man of great talents and meager motivation. That was clear enough, as was his conscience, though the latter was due in great part to his thoughtlessness. Were he to examine himself, perhaps he would find that which would cause him to feel pangs of regret.

Instead, he felt similar pangs not on behalf of himself, but upon hearing his family name whispered in fear amongst his companions.

"Frollo's gone mad!" they would fret from behind the rims of their tankards.

"He's going to kill us all!" Jehan heard several times, and at last he had to ask, "What has Claude done this time?"

This question earned him stares rather than an answer, and he folded his arms. "Well?"

His question was answered by a small peasant family stumbling into the inn, with three small children all weeping and haggard parents struggling to keep their own composures. There were some other peasants carrying things for them, and they sat at a table wearily shaking.

"Did they burn it down?" someone asked the father, a balding man who had been laid low despite how robustly he was built.

"No… but we didn't want to be there if they tried," he said softly.

"Who is they? What is it?" Jehan asked. So rarely did the hairs at the nape of his neck stand up that he had forgotten what the sensation meant.

Why was he so afraid?

Was it because Claude might come for him? He'd always thought he was safe…

He shook himself. There was silly, and then there was _this_.

The peasant man looked morosely at him. "Our mill… our home… Minister Claude Frollo wanted to burn us alive in our home."

Jehan stood frozen in place, and swallowed heavily. Was he at all responsible for this?

No, of course not! Claude didn't need his help over-reacting to everything! He'd always done that!

Someone was bringing the family warm beer, and offering soothing words, and Jehan wondered if he had a home and said Claude was tossing him out whether he would also get free beer.

He shook himself.

He had to _do something_!

But what was someone like him supposed to do? Talk to the madman and see if he would calm his rage? But that could get _him_ in trouble, too!

He looked at the children who sat at the table with their parents, pale faced and looking nervously around the inn and all the strangers in it.

This was the fault of _his_ brother.

If anyone were to do something about it, who else could it be?

Jehan slid off his chair and walked to the door. The night air was bracingly cold, but of course, it would be. It worked to cure him of some of his drunkenness as he strode out into the starlight.

Where to begin looking for Claude?

If he was on some kind of righteous rampage, he could be anywhere, but it would more than likely be somewhere he expected to find Egyptians.

Still as he wandered the streets, he was halted by a voice calling him from above like that of an angel.

"Hello down there!" cooed the voice of Fleur de Lys de Gondelaurier. "You should get out of the streets! It isn't safe tonight! The vagabonds are running amok! I've hired men to keep us safe in here, come up, my sweet Jehan!"

Jenhan paused, bewildered. Should he continue on into the night, with no true direction aside from somehow possibly stopping Claude?

Or… should he accept the lovely lady's invitation…?

"I know what you're thinking," she said wrongly but surely. "You worry because you are friends with Phoebus, and you do not wish to anger him by being with me… but our engagement has been quite broken off, now, and our love can blossom now, my dear lovely philosopher!"

Jehan raised his brows. Now _that_ was another prospect, entirely!

How could he refuse?

"You need only wait a moment, _mon petit chou_!" he called up to her, and giddily pranced through her door, the troubles of the other Parisians forgotten.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31:

Having rested so infrequently of late, Esmeralda had fallen asleep swiftly. Images of Phoebus and Frollo and Quasimodo all struggling against one another swirled through her mind to the rhythm of the tambourine.

Pierre stood off to the side, looking agitated.

Esmeralda was more concerned with why it looked like Quasimodo was fighting _against_ Phoebus. She had left her beloved with her friend so he would be safe, why would they be at each other's throats?

Djali was pushing her head against Esmeralda's arm urging her awake. She had long known that Djali had an almost spiritual sense of when things were going wrong, so she trusted her little friend's opinion. When she complied she heard a worrying uproar. The only time she heard the people shout like that was when they were about to hang someone…

Instantly her drowsiness evaporated, and she was on her feet. Desperate to reach the front of the crowd, she still only reached the outer crust of it when Clopin had his hands on the lever to snuff out his prisoners' lives.

"Stop!" was all she could say even before she realized that it was Quasimodo and Phoebus standing bound and gagged on the scaffold.

The mechanism had already been activated, she even heard it groaning into action, but Clopin stared at her in dismay, and did not pull the lever all the way.

"Are you _ever going to let me hang someone_?" Clopin pouted as she approached.

"Maybe another time," she said with a wave of her hand. "These men aren't spies they're our friends!"

"Well, why didn't they say so?" asked Clopin, feigning innocence as Esmeralda unbound their gags.

"We _did_ say so!" Quasimodo and Phoebus chorused, angrily.

The moment Esmeralda unbound Phoebus, he lurched forward, and shouted, "We came to warn you! Frollo's coming! He says he knows where you're hiding, and he's attacking at dawn with a thousand men!"

All fatigue vanished from Esmeralda's limbs, and she gestured to the tunnels. "Then we must waste _no_ time! We must leave immediately!"

Panic filled the court, but Esmeralda was filled with a sense of peace, instead. As she descended from the scaffold, she was glad that for once they were a step ahead of Frollo, and both Phoebus and Quasi were safe with her.

"You risked a lot coming here," she told Phoebus, though she was sure he'd had a full example of what he risked. "It may not exactly show, but we're grateful."

For a sublime moment in time, Esmeralda leaned into the hug of a good man that she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could trust, who she loved so deeply she couldn't even believe it.

But he pulled back, and pushed Quasi toward her instead, and said, "Don't thank me: thank Quasimodo! Without his help, I would never have found my way here!"

She smiled softly at Quasimodo, who shyly accepted their invitation to bask in victory and friendship with them.

"I have a question for you…" Phoebus said, drawing her attention back to him. There was earnest anxiety in his eyes as he searched hers fro assurance. "It seems I am a persona non grata with the army now… as long as they don't assume I'm dead… and if you leave now, I may never see you again…" he cleared his throat while she stared at him and attempted to understand what he was trying to ask her. "That is to say… I would like to come with you."

Esmeralda knew Clopin was making a shrill noise and Quasimodo had gone stiff, but all she could focus on was Phoebus's eyes.

She reached up to his face, and whispered, "If you come with me, you'll have to marry me."

Even having said this, Esmeralda was stunned that she was even considering it. It was too soon, they hardly knew one another… Yet she had married Pierre on the spot and she didn't even love him, and they had gotten on well enough.

She saw Phoebus grinning, and despite it being lopsided, she knew he was still serious. "I would be honored, Esmeralda," he rumbled softly, leaning down to kiss her and putting his arms around her.

"Ha!" Clopin was laughing raucously, and pushed between them before they could kiss. At first, Esmeralda assumed that he was intent on stopping them altogether, but instead, he exclaimed, _"_ We'll have our party after all! Hanging or wedding, I don't care!" His eyes glinted. "You're marrying our Esme, and that means you're still going to pay!"

"Hey!" Phoebus cried as Clopin had swiped his coin purse.

" _Clopin_!" Esmeralda scolded him.

"Now now, Esme, you've put us through enough, and remember tradition! He must pay the bride price!"

Esmeralda rolled her eyes and gave Phoebus a sympathetic look. "It'll stay in the family," she whispered. "I'm sorry that was your penalty for…" she blushed rather than mention what was actually happening.

It was so surreal, she wished Pierre was there to see, even though he would have written an annoying poem about it, at least she would have known it wasn't in her own head. She would never write a poem like Gringoire's!

Phoebus's hands were gripping hers, then, calloused and warm, strong but gentle, and just like the man himself. She looked up into his eyes, for she knew he was trying to reach her. "I am not from this world," he told her softly, "actually… I can't think of a time when our worlds have really crossed paths…"

"We will find our way," she assured him.

"I'm sure we will. But that isn't what I meant… I was just thinking… yesterday I was a respected captain of the guard, for all anyone knew prepared to marry the daughter of a wealthy family and continue my life in a very predictable fashion, but now…" he gazed adoringly down at her.

"Now you'll actually be happy," Quasimodo muttered with a hint of bitterness.

Esmeralda blushed to have forgotten that he was standing beside them. It was rather inconsiderate, so she moved swiftly to counteract it. "Quasi, you should come with us! You'll never have to return to Frollo, and you'll always be surrounded by friends!"

"I have friends in the bell tower…" he protested softly.

Esmeralda was taken aback at that. She hadn't seen anyone up there with him… What was he talking about?

Phoebus squeezed her hand. "Don't worry, Esmeralda," he whispered, "we'll make it look so exciting to him he won't want to return, then we'll get him." He winked at her and she grinned back. "Most people would say my life was just torn to pieces, but maybe that's a good thing."

"How is that?" Esmeralda asked, keeping her voice light so as to go along with Phoebus's ambitions for luring Quasimodo away with them.

"It's rejuvenating… to know that my life is starting over," Phoebus replied. He waggled his brows at her. "It must be something about being in the Court of Miracles."

"Oh, yes, the blind can see here, so I'm sure you're experiencing a miracle of your own," she nodded, but her smirk was firmly in place.

"And I have you to thank," he responded, and pulled her into his embrace.

"Are you sure you really want to…" she cleared her throat. "I wasn't entirely serious when I said you had to marry me. If you don't want to—"

He set a hand at the back of her neck and pulled her into a kiss, and that was her answer.

When they pulled back to breathe, Esmeralda said, "I always thought I'd spend my life alone."

"Would you prefer that?" Phoebus teased.

"Oh, certainly not. I pretended that it didn't b bother me, but it always has. I've always longed for romance… and look where I finally found it."

"Yes, I'm right here," Phoebus chuckled, and though Esmeralda only had eyes for him, he spared a glance for Quasimodo. "And now that Quasimodo is with us, we're a trio, and we'll make a great team."

Quasimodo shifted uncomfortably. "It's not really the same thing," he said quietly. "I haven't found a miracle, exactly."

"Friendship is a miracle for outcasts like us," Esmeralda reminded him, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder with her bangles clinking on her wrist.

"And we're going to lands abroad," Phoebus added. "That's a step up from living your whole life in a bell tower, isn't it? We'll share the adventure."

Clopin had been swinging through the scaffolding of the home he'd commanded for decades, and had even hung a lantern above Phoebus and Esmeralda with a crescent cutout on the side.

"This will have to be our moon," he said as the "moon" he'd caused to rise projected itself on the vaulted ceiling overhead.

Esmeralda could not help admiring it, and she whispered, "It's like we're actually seeing her… as if we were allowed to…"

Phoebus squeezed her hand, and without having to hear an explanation agreed, "Yes, she's beautiful."

"As long as we have a moon to wish on, the wedding is official," Clopin said, and Esmeralda raised a brow.

"I don't remember a moon when Pierre—"

"Hush!" Clopin chided. "Don't interrupt me!" He held up a jug, testing it in his hands, and finally tossed it over his shoulder, then eyed Quasimodo. "You're a church boy, so you're the closest we have to a priest," he said before he finally looked down at the jar he'd split into pieces. "One, two… a thousand shards! A thousand shards for a thousand years!"

It probably wasn't, but Esmeralda had to grin at how excited Clopin suddenly was.

His actions did beg the question, however, of why he hadn't gone to all this trouble over the marriage to Pierre? He didn't even _like_ soldiers… Ah, but he knew Esmeralda was in love. It must be his gift to her, as well as an attempt to milk every last opportunity for a party out of these terrible circumstances.

Some caravans were already trundling down the caverns out of the city, and Esmeralda's heart went out to them, but she allowed herself to bask in the glow of her _true_ wedding.

"Come!" Clopin shouted through her thoughts, and hauled Quasimodo between herself and Phoebus. "We must have the joining of the hands! The King of Fools will preside!"

Quasimodo stood awkwardly and bewildered, staring from Clopin to the bridal couple, and Esmeralda thought he must be crying in panic.

"There's no need to be nervous," Phoebus whispered, "we're putting on a show for everyone to feel better before they flee. It's our job to make it easier on everyone."

This seemed to finally convince Quasimodo, who took one of both their hands, and was just about to join them together when a sound disturbed the wedding party and the witnesses alike.

That instant of beauty was shattered the instant the Court of Miracles rang with a multitude of heavy, purposeful boots slowly marching toward them, echoing until they seemed to multiply to legions untold. The sound came from every passage, every angle of escape cut off by those unending thuds of leather and the answering clank of metal.

The degree of sheer unadulterated panic that followed was beyond Esmeralda's comprehension, except that her hand was in both Phoebus and Quasimodo's, and this grounded her. Even knowing that they had but one avenue for escape, people were racing against time to evade the inevitable, but very few of them did.


	32. Chapter 32

Author's Note: By necessity, I will allude to some of the darker parts of this subject matter in this chapter, as it cannot be completely glossed over. I have striven to strike a balance between not making it too terribly graphic and still projecting the appropriate aura of menace. I hope that those whose stomachs are strong enough enjoy it, and those who do not spare themselves the trouble and skip to the next chapter.

Chapter 32:

The very fact that Frollo stood atop steps that were meant to mark the boundaries of her people's sanctuary while swarms of guardsmen flooded the Court made her think she was imagining it. She was light-headed, unable to comprehend even as spears were aimed directly at her, encircling her on all sides.

Even Djali had been seized, but the goat was far beyond her reach, and the desperation to be with her little friend drew a scream from her which shattered her decorum.

Phoebus pressed close at her side, and Quasimodo shriveled to cower behind them both, but Frollo just kept coming closer, like a spider as it approached a squirming victim ensnared in its carefully woven trap.

What had she missed? Was there a way to go back and solve the problem? What was there to be done? There was always an escape route! This was not over!

"After twenty years of searching, the Court of Miracles is mine at last! _Dear Quasimodo_ : I always knew you would be of use to me!"

"No…" Quasimodo crumbled under those simple words, so even as Esmeralda's arms were restrained behind her back, she stepped forward.

"What are you talking about?" she snarled at the judge.

When Frollo's attention _did_ shift to her, his eyes were aflame above his long nose and his smirk. "He led me _right to you_ , my dear," he said, and cupped her chin in those bony fingers of his.

That contact shoved shadowy images into Esmeralda's mind, as she realized that she was in peril of finding Frollo in her prison cell about to take whatever he wanted from her… She could not show her horror, she must do what Phoebus was doing, and be furious instead.

"You're a liar!" Esmeralda spat, but Frollo was past caring, moving to gloat over the man who stood beside her.

"And look what else I've caught in my net! Captain Phoebus _back from the dead_!"

Phoebus struggled against the guards who'd restrained him, snarling like a bull that wanted to charge, huffing with rage at the withered older man before him.

"Another _miracle_ , no doubt!" Frollo sneered smugly. An instant later, a frown overshadowed his features, and he said, "I should remedy that…" He took a few more steps and spread his arms out before the assembled prisoners. "There'll be a little _bonfire_ in the square, tomorrow, and you're _all_ invited to attend!" he informed them with glee. "Lock them up!"

All of them, all those she loved… reduced to ashes not simply in spite of the work she had done for their sake, but in part _because of her_ …

She had a sneaking suspicion that she was destined to go first… perhaps that was the only mercy that she would receive at the end, when it came.

At first she thought Quasimodo would come with them, but instead, Frollo's instructions for him echoed through the chamber. He was to be chained in the bell tower… forced to watch, no doubt, as there was no better view of the town square than just before the cathedral.

It was pointless to protest, so she gritted her teeth. Her eyes darted to Phoebus, _her husband_ , and somehow the sight of him and the knowledge that they were married calmed her.

Even if they were to die that night, they were joined in the eyes of God.

If they had to go to Heaven soon, wouldn't they be together? That sounded right…

It was easier to focus on these questions than on what would actually happen to them, but gradually, the anxieties over what would happen crept in and overpowered everything else.

The further they were dragged, the more agitated Phoebus became, as well, casting wildly furious glances around at the other soldiers, and doing his best to break free from them. The result was an unfortunate degree of roughness to suppress him, which left his nose bleeding, and forced him to limp.

Once they arrived at the Palace of Justice, they were taken to the dungeon, the _infamous_ dungeon where people Esmeralda had known had disappeared for years.

"Gypsies don't do well inside stone walls," Frollo sneered from behind her, an echo of his words from before. "Luckily for you, none of you will remain here long!"

Esmeralda's jaw remained grimly set as she watched Clopin— her king who had always fiercely defended her people, who was her brother and her father and her mainstay of hope, was shoved into a cell.

She could not bear to look at Phoebus, though she knew he was close by. Instead, she hung her head, but she could still feel her neighbors and erstwhile friends leveling accusing glares on her. She had been anticipating the opportunity to plan something when she and Phoebus were shoved into the same cell, but instead, he was shoved into a cell and she was dragged further along the hall.

"Esmeralda!" Phoebus cried, straining to break down the door between them as she was dragged further and further. He continued to call her name until she heard Clopin chastise him, and that was the last she heard of him.

Instead she was taken to a cell quite apart from the others, and of quite a different character. There was a set of stocks at its center, one for the feet and another for the arms and head. There was a rack, as well, against one wall, and blood… _everywhere_.

On a strictly human level, Esmeralda recoiled from a place where so much suffering had taken place, as if she could feel every time someone had suffered at the hands of the torturers, and their cries echoed through her.

As she hung back and whimpered, she noticed that there was a long bench pressed against a stone pillar with manacles hanging from it. It was to this she was taken. "What are you doing?" she asked, seeing Frollo enter after her with a twisted smile.

"Why, I thought you knew what we did with witches," Frollo sneered. "You must confess to your crimes, before you can be sent back to your Master."

Esmeralda stared down in horror as her foot was clamped inside what looked like a metal boot. The dagger she had strapped on her leg was torn away, leaving her defenseless. "What is this?" she demanded, as she was distracted from the sinister look in Frollo's face and the fear of what was to come the next morning by the more immediate terror of what was about to happen with her foot.

"Your thralls cannot help you, witch," Frollo said. "This device will help us extract the truth from you. You will confess to using witchcraft to blind the men of Paris with lust, especially Captain Phoebus, who has been seen in your company more than any other. If you do not confess, we shall have to bring him in to see if he will share with us your methods."

His words were echoing off the ceiling and probably into all the other cells, as the door had a small barred window on it. With a sinking sensation, Esmeralda realized that whatever was about to happen, everyone was going to hear it. That was already terrifying enough, but she glanced down at the boot. It didn't seem… magical. And Frollo probably wouldn't condone its presence if it were. How would it do anything like that?

"I'm not a witch," Esmeralda said at last, giving Frollo a defiant glare. "Say what you want, but I don't practice any magic."

"I suggest you learn to admit the truth," Frollo told her. "Otherwise," he said, smiling down at her, "God will punish you worse than I shall."

A torturer with a mask over his face took hold of a crank attached to her boot, and it tightened around her leg. She sucked in a breath, but she had to keep calm. "I am innocent," she said, meeting Frollo's cold eyes.

"Ah, it seems you must be taught." Frollo gestured for the torturer to tighten the screw.

She sucked in her breath again, but that strategy did not work so well the second time. How could this be the will of God? The same God who supposedly loved all mankind as His children? Frollo had the boot tightened again while she was trying to adjust, and caught off-guard, she let out a pained groan between her gritted teeth.

Her people needed to hear her keep strong, needed to hear that she could stand up to Frollo, even if she was going to die tomorrow. "Admit that you used your magic to enthrall Captain Phoebus," Frollo said. "Admit that you are incapable of real love, and that you are possessed by a demon who gives you the power to overpower years of military training to make him rebel."

Why was he asking her to say such things? Her mind was raked over with pain, but she still had the consciousness to realize that he was jealous. "Why? Wish I'd done it to you?" she asked.

The boot tightened twice, and she heard something in her foot snap. At that, she couldn't keep her control, and screamed, curling forward though her arms were manacled behind her. Frollo tipped her chin up, so that through her tears she could see his face. "Confess," he said.

"I confess," she said, and heard her trembling, pathetic voice echo back at her. Why was she so weak? "I confess, I repent, anything you want, just take this thing off!"

Frollo smiled, and his hand trailed from her chin, lower over her body. "Good," he said.

"Sir…" the torturer said uncomfortably, "I think we have all that we can get from her. Anymore and she won't be able to last the night."

Frollo looked disappointed, but agreed. Esmeralda didn't even know what was happening until she was released from the boot, so that she curled up in her manacles to fight away her tears.

"Leave us," Frollo rumbled, "I must speak with the prisoner."

The torturer and the guards left Frollo in the cell, and even though Frollo was not the one who operated the boot, she was more afraid to be alone with him than with the torturer.

"You must think there is no escape for you," Frollo told her, standing over her with a contemptuous sneer. "You're wrong."

She looked up at him, too afraid to meet his eyes, and somehow dreading his alternative more than her own death.

"I can save your soul, but you would have to formalize the agreement with me," Frollo said steadily, and yet there was a tremor just below the surface of his words.

"What power do you have over souls?" she whimpered up at him. "You don't look like God to me."

He drew himself up a little taller and looked down at her along the length of his considerable nose. "I am made in the image of God, so indeed, I _do_ look like God," he sneered, but Esmeralda did not particularly think that was the point of whatever he was referencing. "All you would have to do is accept my offer to become my wife, and then you will be saved from the flames of this world _and_ the next."

Esmeralda's mouth fell open. " _What_?"

That was the last thing she had expected from him, but honestly now that he'd demanded it, she thought she ought to have seen it coming.

"It is simple: once you belong to me, I will absolve you of your sins, and then you will go to heaven, rather than where you are currently destined."

"You don't know where I'm going, and it has nothing to do with me," she hissed back at him.

"I am a righteous, holy man, I am purer than vulgar filth like you!" he snapped. "You wouldn't know about such things, but I do! You will lose your life unless you choose me, and when you die you will go directly to Hell! Instead, allow me to teach you how to be holy."

Esmeralda looked around the room, at the whips coiled on pegs and the devices she could not name which appeared to be fashioned for unspeakable horrors. "You would know a lot about purity, wouldn't you?" she drawled.

"More than you could ever learn, but I will share my righteousness with you…" he knelt over her. "My love for you burns like molten lead… it sears my very soul, and there is no relief… it must be sated!"

His hands were on her, and though she was weakened and shackled, Esmeralda fought to rebuff him.

"Stop!" she cried desperately, feeling how she was being violated and wishing she could reach her dagger. She would love to slice through his face!

The door opening stopped Frollo rather than her cries or her rattling shackles, for Frollo needed to look respectable when the guards came in.

"One of our prisoners is going mad!" said the guard, who was nursing his bloody nose.

"Get out of here you idiot!" Frollo shouted. "Deal with the other prisoners, yourselves!"

"He's going to break out! We need your help!"

Frollo hissed under his breath, and asked, "Who is it?"

"Cap-Phoebus!" one of the other guards said.

Esmeralda's heart fluttered at the thought that he was fighting for her—he must have heard her screams!

Frollo saw the satisfied smugness of her smile, and gripped her hair in one spidery hand. "The choice is yours. Phoebus dies with you unless you choose me."

Those dark eyes knew precisely what venom lay behind them.

"You think you can use my love for Phoebus against me?" she hissed at him.

"Love?" Frollo repeated, and made a low, disturbing noise which was not laughter. "Tell him what I've offered you. Tell him that if you choose me, I will return him to his family and order my men not to reveal what he did unless he threatens us."

Esmeralda snarled at him, but her manacles were being unlocked, and she was being carried out of the room. At least she would be with Phoebus again…

He cried out at the sight of her, and reached through the bars of the door. "Are you all right?" he asked, before allowing himself to be driven back into the cell so that the door could be opened.

It was barely large enough for one person, but the addition of Esmeralda did not cause him any difficulties, since he merely snatched her away from the guards and crouched down with her in his lap.

"Your foot…" he whispered just before the door was slammed on them both.

"Forget the foot… Frollo…" she shuddered. "I'm just glad to be back with you."

"What did he do?" he asked with a dangerous rumble in his undertone.

"He…" she cleared her throat. "He gave me a choice… I could save you if I married him, instead."

Phoebus stiffened, and the way his grip tightened on her told her he was feeling a bit possessive. Slowly, however, he let out a sigh and his arms loosened. "You have to do it…" he whispered softly. "I can't let him kill you, no matter what else he was going to do… It would be a chance to escape, at least…"

"I won't do it… for myself… but think of it, Phoebus, there's no reason you should die. You're a good man, you're—"

"I'm your husband. If you die, I have to watch, don't I? If I watch that, I'll die happily just to be with you on the other side."

She gazed up at him, wondering at how easily he committed to die after only knowing her for so short a time.

"I know, it doesn't seem logical. But this is about principles, too. This is about standing by my choices. I fought on the battlefield for some dispute that had nothing to do with me, it was an arrangement between kings, and it forced me to kill people I would ordinarily have considered my friends. But now I have the chance to stand for what I believe is right. If you won't save yourself, neither will I."

She was overcome with tears, and clung to him with her face pressed to his chest. His arms were wrapping more tightly around her again, and somehow knowing that they would die together seemed as if it were just as well.

"I used to be naïve enough to think I'd live to see the day we'd live under the rule of true justice," she whispered.

"You're not dead yet, Esmeralda," he rubbed her back, "something could still change."

"Not yet," she acknowledged. "But still I know I will die long before that morning dawns, but I still believe that one day humanity will be wiser…. The world just has to be a little older first."

"What you want is for the perfect rule of God to be enacted here on earth," he whispered softly. "I have to admit, that would save us both, but we can't expect imperfect humans to do a thing like that."

"I still believe someday we can be closer to it than we are now," she said, and somehow, this discussion dulled the pain in her foot, so she clung to it. "Life will be fairer…" she took a deep breath. "There won't be so many desperate people on the streets…" She squeezed her eyes shut, and forced more words out to combat her pain. "Greed will not pay, anymore, either."

"Then I say Godspeed to that bright millennium," Phoebus replied softly, but no less fervently for the softness. "My prayer for you is that you've predicted the truth and you will live to see it despite the odds."

She laughed softly. "There are still days like this… there will always be days… dark and bitter like this one… and it'll seem like we haven't got a prayer…" she drifted off, grimacing at the agony in her foot.

Rather than allow the silence to consume her, Phoebus spoke up. "But a prayer for something better is the one thing we all share. Perhaps that will be enough one day… all of us praying and fighting for justice together." He kissed her hair. "If only there were more of us like you."

"One day…" she whispered as sleep reached out and closed her eyes. "Someday…" she yawned. "Soon."

What _was_ soon was dawn, when the soldiers came for their prisoners. It was _too_ soon, in fact. The weary prisoners were powerless against the hands which forced them into cages mounted on carts and hauled them away.

Even though she was forced to stand, Esmeralda was grateful that she was the first to go. At least she would not have to hear the screams of the others. It would be she who set the example for the others, so even though as she watched the dry bundles of twigs tossed at her feet she was terrified, she strove to keep her composure.

Frollo stood at a short distance, receiving a torch before he approached her and spoke in a hushed tone. "The time has come, Gypsy. You stand on the brink of the abyss. Yet even now, you can be saved."

She couldn't possibly avoid listening, but she still knew Frollo didn't have anything approaching good intentions.

"Choose me, or the fire!"

Somehow, Esmeralda was less intimidated by the torch Frollo thrust into her face than by how he leaned closer. And there was his ultimatum once more.

Supposedly, she was as callous as him, and he thought there was actual merit to her choosing him. Aside from, naturally, avoiding a prolonged, torturous demise… Then, of course, she would let him do whatever he wanted to her, and she would let him murder her loved ones.

It was so sick that she spat in Frollo's face, and glared at him with all the rage accumulated in her heart ever since she had come to Paris.

He returned a matching glare for her audacity, but she was past caring.

Death. Death and agony would follow soon, and soon she would be nothing but charred remains…

Would God let her into Heaven? Surely not…

The torch captivated her attention, even as Frollo was denouncing her.

"The Gypsy Esmeralda has refused to recant! This evil witch has put the soul of every citizen of Paris in mortal peril! Look around you at the destruction she has wrought!"

Esmeralda stared at Frollo as she wondered how many Parisians would remember this day and use her as the scapegoat for all his crimes. When next gypsies tried to live in Paris, would they be murdered on sight to avoid this manner of uproar?

"For justice! For Paris! And for her own salvation!"

Would this really save her? Of course, since Frollo was saying it, it must be a lie.

"It is my sacred duty to send this unholy demon back where she belongs!" With that, Frollo touched the flames to the bundles of kindling at Esmeralda's feet.

The fire spread as from above, Esmeralda heard someone shout, " _No_!" it sounded like Quasimodo, but he couldn't be watching… She hadn't expected the bells to begin ringing, but perhaps this was only a sound that everyone heard before they died…

The smoke climbed into her lungs, stinging and choking. She could all but hear it laugh and leer at her… _ah_ … as she coughed, she saw Frollo doing just that.

At least she would close her eyes soon, never to see him again… Her prayer as conscious faded from her, was that God would take her to be with him, even if she didn't deserve it, and she would finally be safe from Frollo… _once and for all_ …


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33:

Phoebus had been restrained and forced to watch the woman he loved prepare for death. He had been knocked around until the blood flowed from his wound again, but this time there was nobody to bandage the wound. Nobody really cared, he would die soon, anyway.

Thank God it had healed somewhat, or he might have lost consciousness before reaching the square. He needed to spend those last moments with Esmeralda, no matter how it would break his heart to hear her cries. He could not abandon her to her fate.

As he stood trying to shake his way out of the cage he alone was forced into, watching a mob of peasants try to break through the ring of guards restraining them from rescuing Esmeralda, he heard a familiar voice.

This voice was not among those clamoring to absolve Esmeralda of any wrongdoing, and its owner was not being attacked for her lack of compliance…

Rather, it was none other than Fleur de Lys in the crowd, pointing at him and asking that he be released so she can heal him from Esmeralda's wicked spell.

Jehan was with her, qualifying these statements with a cringe to soften the blow, but with only one hand on her arm to hold her back.

"Go home, Fleur," he shouted at her in disgust. "I'm sure it was very inconvenient of you to come here, but you have no business here. We're done, remember?"

Her eyes flashed, and she pushed past the guard to stand on the other side of the bars, glaring at him. She gripped the bars and pointed to Esmeralda. "You don't have to die for her! You have me! You don't even know her! Come back to me, and you will never have to think of her again!"

Jehan gave her a swift, confused glance, but Phoebus had no interest in dissecting what was probably a tryst between them.

"I wish I didn't know you, at all!" he spat at Fleur de Lys. "But I know you well enough to know that I would rather die with Esmeralda than live with you!"

Fleur de Lys burst into tears, covering her face, and Jehan wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm… sorry… old friend…" Jehan muttered to Phoebus, and because Phoebus knew the manner of man Jehan was, he could not sustain any indignation towards him. He was simply an irresponsible degenerate, and always would be.

In the distance, he heard Frollo giving his speech indicting Esmeralda of her supposed crimes, and he recoiled from these two members of his past circle. "Take her home, Jehan," he said, perhaps coldly, but it was Esmeralda upon whom his focus was riveted.

Phoebus put them both out of his mind, as instead, he would now witness the final minutes of his new bride's life burn away to ash.

The only escape from this torment would be his own turn on the scaffold… and the pain would be compounded by the knowledge that he stood with his own flesh burning away where his beloved's had before…

The instant the flames met the reeds at Esmeralda's feet, someone from above shouted, " _No_!"

Was this the voice of God, enraged at the murder of one who was precious to him? The bells in the bell tower were ringing… he looked up to see the thin pillars on the façade of Notre Dame crumble.

 _Just how angry is_ _God?_ He wondered, and why hadn't he intervened sooner?

Was this the end of the world?

Something swung down from the cathedral. Some _one_ … someone who swung all the way down into the square.

Quasimodo landed on the scaffold and tore the ropes which bound Esmeralda to the stake asunder. He slung her over his shoulder as he noticed three approaching guards. He knocked them back to the ground with the flaming torch which had lit Esmeralda's pyre.

Then, he swung back across the square to the church. It _wasn't_ the end of the world!

Quasimodo had shown the way!

If the bell ringer had done the impossible, why couldn't the captain— _former_ captain—do the same?

"Sanctuary!" Quasimodo shouted again, to the uproarious approval of the assembled Parisians. "Sanctuary!" he roared a third and final time before disappearing into the Cathedral.

Frollo had the audacity then to urge his men to attack the Cathedral! Who did he think he was, Saladin?

An enormous wooden beam careened from the upper levels of the Cathedral to land squarely on Frollo's carriage as he was approaching it. _If only Quasimodo had waited a moment longer_!

A similar thought appeared to occur to Frollo, himself, as he stared at the shattered remains of his carriage. The horse which had been harnessed to it reared as it was freed and went galloping out of the square. Frollo was having terrible luck with horses these days…

Frollo did not remain shaken long enough for Phoebus's liking. Instead he wheeled around on his men and began to shout orders again. "Come back, you cowards!"

There was really no good option for these men, with beams raining from the sky. What was next? Hell itself would open up and start chewing on people? Phoebus really needed sleep… or a drink.

There went Frollo, still throwing orders left and right, while Phoebus was stuck in his damned cage. Still… Phoebus noticed that since Frollo was focused on the Cathedral doors, so were his men.

Even the one who was meant to be guarding Phoebus was distracted. Seizing the opportunity by the throat, Phoebus chuckled, "Alone at last!" at the frozen guard, and then slammed his fist down on the guard's head for good measure. As he collapsed, Phoebus grabbed the keys off his belt.

Free at last, Phoebus grabbed the fallen guard's spear, and when he climbed to the top of the cage, he raised it overhead. "Citizens of Paris!" he shouted over the din of soldiers attempting to batter down the doors of Notre Dame. "Frollo has persecuted our people! Ransacked _our city_! And now he has declared war on _Notre Dame_ , herself! _Will we allow it_?"

The clamor which erupted in the wake of his speech told Phoebus there was a real chance they could end Frollo's reign that very night before it consumed Esmeralda, Quasimodo, and Paris herself.

Swarms of Parisians, no longer restrained by newly distracted soldiers, freed the gypsies, and charged the soldiers.

All was chaos in the square, and Phoebus hurled himself into the nexus of the fray. He barely registered what he was doing as he released the rage that had been boiling in his gut ever since he returned to Paris.

At some point in the fight he lost the spear, but he got more satisfaction out of punching directly into the faces of these cravens.

He caught sight of Djali, and was stunned to find the man who had helped Esmeralda drag him all the way up into the Bell Tower was wearing a monk's robes now. He was also doing something _like_ fighting, but at least there was Djali at his side, doing a much better job.

When the lanky fellow would swing his arms and then duck out of the way, Djali struck out at the soldier instead, and as he had been distracted, invariably the soldier would fall back helplessly.

Missiles rained down from above, thwarting the siege tactics of the men attempting to scale the Cathedral. Phoebus forced his way closer to the church, closer to Esmeralda, until a fresh chorus of screams made him look up to see molten metal pouring from the mouths of gargoyles and onto anyone in its path! Even pigeons began attacking the soldiers, but nobody else. That was a _little_ too specific to be anything but divine intervention!

Phoebus lifted up a prayer that Frollo had gotten caught in the flow before running to ensure he didn't get caught in it, himself.

He could hear the cries of those who had, and was forced to crouch in a nearby alley, shaking. He was back on the battlefield, the cries of the wounded and dying all around him. He had led his men through Hell many times over, but now the gates of Hell seemed to have opened again. He was unarmed, and unprepared… but this riot was coming to an end.

Molten lead was flowing into the Seine, and panicked Parisians were fleeing to their homes… at least those whose homes were not on fire. Though the lead would soon cool, it was a shame it was clogging up the river.

The guards were dispersing as well, but not in pursuit of the peasants. They, like the others, were simply fleeing for their lives! That meant they weren't receiving any orders!

So _where was Frollo_? Assuming he hadn't died… he would have infiltrated the Cathedral!

Phoebus had to be sure! In fact, he could see an opening that had been cut into the door. He swallowed heavily.

Sure, Quasimodo may very well be able to defend Esmeralda—assuming she was still alive to be protected—but Frollo had some sick power over him. Even residual command could overpower Quasimodo's resolve.

No, Phoebus could not afford another moment's rest. He charged back through the square, which had been abandoned by all but the wounded and the dying.

Some nuns from the church had braved the madness, and were caring for those in need. It alleviated his guilt for not being capable of rescuing everyone as he crossed the makeshift bridge the nuns had shaped out of two pews and some other bits of furniture.

He didn't linger to dwell on its construction, he merely climbed over it into the church. He found the Archdeacon crumpled at the foot of a staircase, and was brought up short.

Had Frollo done that? How was he going to pull off his sanctimonious act after this?

Ah… this must mean that Frollo had left behind all sense of his persona. Now, he was capable of anything.

"Run lad!" the Archdeacon cried. "I can wait, but they cannot!"


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34:

Shadows had choked Esmeralda's consciousness as well as her lungs. Deep in her consciousness, she was aware of winds blowing all around her, and then a rushing in her skull.

Soon afterwards, she was at rest in the darkness, swathed in swaddling so tight that her limbs could not move, and indeed she could not feel them anymore.

Momentarily, she became mildly aware of a commotion a short distance away. People were shouting, and it sounded much like a war…

Why was there a war?

 _This doesn't sound like Heaven…_ she thought to herself. In fact… _it sounds like the opposite…_

Flames… flames had been everywhere, but that was when she yet lived, so they had nothing to do with Hell… she was calm now, serene in her dark prison, and yet she wanted to be free.

Sparks of her spirit rose up to fight against the manacles she could feel around her entire body, but she was powerless.

She fell back though she had forced her way closer to the surface, and for a long while, all she knew was the silence of her own mind.

That was until she felt someone gripping her hands, and heard the sound of that person sobbing close to her. Sobbing, and then embracing her…

Why was she powerless to respond?

Whoever this was must be suffering… must think she was dead… and she was unable to reach out to him… yes it must be a 'him,' mustn't it?

Actually… it sounded like Quasimodo, when she heard snatches of his voice. He was desperate… weeping… why could she not reach him?

Then she heard another voice… velvet poison which was deceptively calm and prepared to bring death and vicious torment… Why were Frollo and Quasimodo together in this new dark world?

Surely one was bound for heaven and the other…

But she must be alive.

She could still feel the ache in her foot, and it was her lungs pricked with vicious needles…

Instead of the low tones of before, she began to hear shouting… something must be wrong! She had to help!

She forced herself to open her eyes, and to sit up, her mind awash in images from stained glass windows and puppet shows, and the vicious eyes she had seen through the smoke and flames.

Her first blurred vision of the room she was in happened to be of Quasimodo's back, facing a corner which was too far away for her to scrutinize with any success.

The important thing was that he should know she yet lived.

"Quasimodo…" she croaked, thinking her voice sounded like that of a weak old woman rather than a vibrant young woman.

Instantly he turned to her, calling her name, and running to embrace her.

From that darkened corner, Esmeralda heard the rumble of Frollo's voice snarl, "She lives!" She next heard the hiss of a sword, and Quasimodo's shout of "No!"

Quasimodo ran past Frollo out the door with Esmeralda cradled in his arms, and it was all Esmeralda could do to cling to him about his neck.

Her head was bobbing around, and her arms were wobbling with all the strength of soggy bread.

"Hush," he whispered desperately to her, and that was fine with her. She had nothing to say but a scream, and the desire to scream was quickly magnified when Quasimodo dropped below a balcony, and the only thing which kept them from plunging to their deaths was his one powerful arm clinging to a hanging gargoyle.

Breathless moments passed during which Esmeralda's heart threatened to pummel her smoky lungs, but she could not relieve the tension in the least.

There was one instant when she thought Frollo may leave thinking that they'd escaped further into the cathedral, but that hope was swiftly shattered.

Frollo's face, lit up by the flames below, loomed over them, and he asked, "Leaving so soon?" with a gleeful grin so broad his face looked skeletal.

Then the sword came.

Quasimodo had to quickly swing to another gargoyle to avoid the blow, and all Esmeralda could do was cling to him with all her waning strength.

She nearly slipped when Frollo swung at them again, so Quasimodo shouted at her to hang on.

It seemed at first that Quasimodo would outrun Frollo's sword strikes, but instead, Frollo cornered them, and Quasimodo threw Esmeralda back over the railing so that she was safe on solid footing, and he drew Frollo's attention by standing on the railing.

Esmeralda crawled slowly to a safe distance so that she could escape Frollo's view for just a little longer. If only she could muster the strength to be of actual help…

"I should have known you'd risk your life to save that gypsy witch," Frollo growled, and while Esmeralda was hauling herself upright on the railing, he added, "Just as your own mother died trying to save _you_."

This was just as much news to Esmeralda as it was to Quasimodo, but she had to restrain her reaction, as well as prevent herself from coughing, while Quasimodo merely asked, "What?"

Esmeralda did not have time to process this revelation, she would more than likely have to ask Quasimodo about it later.

She chastised herself for thinking there would _be_ a time after this ordeal, but proceeded all the same.

Was there some kind of weapon she could attack Frollo with?

She was too late. Frollo had swung his cape over Quasimodo's head, so that he blinded him. Esmeralda watched helplessly as Frollo then used the cape to swing Quasimodo back over the railing so that he hung by the cape over the abyss.

In doing so, he left himself open to Quasimodo pulling him down along with him, so they were both hanging.

Esmeralda strained over the edge, reaching out for Quasimodo, and pain shot through her the moment he held onto her.

Her foot was lit aflame as she braced herself on it, and desperately fought to hold onto him.

Wicked laughter distracted her from her struggle, and slowly, she turned to see its source.

Frollo, standing atop a drainpipe gargoyle, with his sword prepared to swing, was giving her a still more demonic smile than she'd seen through the smoke and flames.

A single strike from that sword would steal her head from her body, and then it and Quasimodo would fall upon the courtyard.

All for naught.

All her running, all her planning, all the times she had built alliances with the outside world in order to safeguard her people… lost in an instant…

"And He shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!" Frollo exclaimed, and his words echoed with a chill through her ears.

His sword was poised behind his back, prepared to lop off her head, but something besides Esmeralda's weary bones cracked.

This was surprise enough, as her arms were straining past their breaking point, but Quasimodo had reached out, and given the gargoyle upon which Frollo stood a swift punch.

It had already been crumbling, Esmeralda explained to herself, and it was that one swift, powerful strike which made the stone gargoyle crumble.

It seemed to Esmeralda that the gargoyle came to life, and roared at Frollo as they fell together into the square below.

Quasimodo swung up beside her, a grim expression on his face. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

Esmeralda took a moment to take stock of herself, her heart racing and her mind refusing to process what she had just seen. "I'm more concerned about you," she croaked at last.

He embraced her gently, as if she were infinitely delicate. "I will never let someone hurt you again," he vowed softly, so despite how weak and over-strained she was, she returned the embrace.

"Sorry I'm late," said the voice of Phoebus from behind them, sheepish but cautiously humorous. "Got room in that hug for a third?"


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35:

The trio remained up in the bell tower, resting to recover both from their wounds and the night's horrors. Quasimodo was more than happy to cede his usual bed to his friends who were both suffering from physical injuries, especially since caring for them helped distract him from what had just happened.

Esmeralda could see it in his eyes, something he was just barely holding back.

"Y-You're married now so it's all right," he said, patting Esmeralda's hand gently as if he were some monk caring for an invalid.

He really may as well be.

Phoebus was beside her with his arms firmly locked there, and he instructed Quasimodo in bandaging and splinting her foot, a task for which Quasimodo was grateful.

"You know, what you did was brave," Esmeralda wheezed softly, hoping if she spoke quietly enough, nobody would notice how her voice was choked.

Quasimodo looked quietly at her, then said, "He was my master…"

"He was cruel, and wanted to kill you both and anyone else who got in his way," Phoebus said. "Now you're free."

Quasimodo looked down, and after a moment said, "But I _killed_ him."

"Before he could kill me, which would have killed you," Esmeralda said. "I think even God would approve of that."

"You think?" Quasimodo asked, and his one good eye widened at her.

"I know," Esmeralda said, and gestured for him to come and take another hug. "Tomorrow, we'll all go down to the city and we'll tell everyone what happened."

"I claimed sanctuary for you, if anyone tries to arrest you, you stay."

"Thank you, my friend," Esmeralda said, but that was when they heard footsteps approaching.

Phoebus placed a hand over her head, and Quasimodo whirled around to menace the door.

"Esme!" Clopin wheezed, and then Esmeralda heard Djali bleat at her. The two of them ran up to Esmeralda, and she showered them in kisses while Clopin held her firmly in a hug.

"You're bleeding…" she noted, but Clopin waved a dismissive hand.

"I had to leave my scythe downstairs, but I've never felt more alive!" Clopin said, and flexed one skinny arm. "I thought I would never see you again…" he cast a sharp glance at Phoebus. "I'm going to watch you, Captain. You had better do right by Esme."

"You can count on me," Phoebus rumbled.

Esmeralda was smiling up at Clopin and then she noticed a figure behind him, in a blood spattered monk's robe. "Pierre… have you taken a vow of silence?"

Clopin clasped his hands and looked upward. "Oh, thank you!" he cried dramatically.

"Not quite, I'm afraid," Pierre said, walking into the room, and giving Quasimodo a shake of the hand. "Your performance last night was marvelous! Would you permit me to write a play about it?"

Quasimodo's mouth dropped open. "Oh, oh no, sir, I couldn't—"

"What if you got to play yourself?" Pierre asked. "We could split the profits!"

"If we're splitting profits, I want in," Clopin said.

"Ah, take that talk elsewhere," Phoebus said. "Esme and I could use some rest and relaxation.

"Oh, right!" Quasimodo cleared his throat. "Everyone out, let our friends sleep." He cast a smile over his shoulder as he ushered the others out, and winked with his good eye.

"Think that counts as his blessing?" Phoebus asked.

"If it is, we're infinitely blessed, now."

"Yes… seems to me your 'someday' has already come… now lets' rest, and enjoy it."

Later that day, the Archdeacon of Notre Dame announced to the Parisians in the square that not only were Quasimodo, Esmeralda and Phoebus alive, but the King himself had pardoned them of all wrongdoings.

It took some months before Esmeralda's feet had healed enough just to walk without help, and still longer before she could dance.

Soon after the events of that January, Phoebus received a letter from his parents, which chastised him for dissolving the marriage arrangements with the Gondelaurier family. He then had to reply that he had married Esmeralda, and that was the end of it.

"It isn't really the end," Esmeralda said when he had dictated it out to her. "They won't accept me."

"Not without some prodding," Phoebus said thoughtfully, then quickly wrote out an addendum at the end of the letter. "That's why we'll have to go convince them to."

Author's Note: For those of you who have enjoyed this little romp, I hope you will be inspired to read my professional novels, but even if you aren't, stay tuned to see the sequel forthcoming to this piece.


End file.
